Ever Homeward
by Binne
Summary: It's been less than a year since Arthur was crowned King of Britain. Though his power has increased, invaders from foreign lands ravage the Isle. A timid village girl is brought to Camelot. AU: Lancelot and Tristan live. GawainOC, with appearances by all.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, everyone! I'm new to this fandom and and have never really written a romance before, so I'm going to do my absolute best to make this tasteful. I'm trying to become a better writer, so I would really appreciate any sort of commentary. In fact, if you feel this story is worthy of a flame (or many), then, please, go ahead. I'd rather know that the story is bad so that I can redo it. **

**I'm something of a knowledge freak, so I have done my best to make this as historically accurate as possible. (I've done plenty of research, which included reading all the old legends, from the Early Welsh poetry such as _Y Gododdin _and _Cullhwch and Olwen _to Geoffrey of Monmouth's _History of the Kings of Britain_ to Chretien de Troyes... you get the idea. Actually, as a side note, that reading was not done in preparation for writing this fic; it was done for pleasure in my free time, which just shows you how much of a loser I am.) Also, I've made attempts to include a minimal amount of Welsh and Gaelic – just for the "historically accurate" factor. **

**As stated in the summary, this piece is AU because Lancelot and Tristran are alive, even though it's set after the movie. Also stated in the summary, this is most likely going to turn out to be GawainOC. **

**Final note, I promise... This is probably the longest individual chapter I'll ever post. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story. **

**Still reading? I'm impressed. :)**

Ever Homeward

It was dawnbreak in the valley. The sky lightened, and the sun rose, casting its rays upon the cluster of thatched-roof cottages, and the golden fields of wheat that surrounded them.

In a cottage on the outskirts of the village, soft morning light streamed in through a small, glassless window, caressing the sparse rustic furniture and the form of a young woman as she slept soundly on a wool-filled mattress. She was dreaming - it was a pleasant dream, for once, about riding through a meadow on her mare. Of course, it was not to last.

In one of the many chicken-coops, a rooster crowed loudly, shattering the dream as the woman came awake. She opened her eyes, blinking against the sun. She was silent as she readied herself for the day, donning a simple dress and a patched apron. Mentally, though, her mind was in a flurry as she ran through the list of everything she would have to do. _Breakfast. Feed the chickens; collect the eggs. Feed the goat and the ponies and Síoda, and then to Robert's house to wind more bandages and dry more herbs… _

She stepped into the main room of the cottage and threw more kindling on the fire - heavens, how she hated the warmth it added to the already heated summer morn. She prepared breakfast - the usual black bread with a smear of butter, and was just laying the meal on the table when a dark-haired man entered.

"Aerin," he said, by way of greeting as he took a seat at the table.

"Good morning, father," she said with a smile. "How did you sleep?"

"Adequately, as always. Ah, here comes your brother."

True enough, a lad a couple of year's Aerin's junior staggered into the room, looking half-asleep. He was the spitting image of his father, down to the hazel eyes and crooked grin.

"Morning, Dafydd," the young woman said, in more of a prompting way than anything else.

He yawned lazily before replying, collapsing into a chair. "Oh. G'morning, Aerin, Father."

The young woman placed the water jug on the table and waited for her father to say grace before touching her food. She pointedly refrained from crossing herself, but neither family member said anything, used to her ways. It was a quick meal – a few minutes spent wolfing down the only nourishment they would receive until well after sundown. Before leaving for a long day in the fields, Dafydd kissed his sister's cheek.

"See you later."

"Aye," she replied. "Later." Aerin cleaned up the remnants of the meal as her father and brother left the cottage, then grabbed a woven basket and headed for the fenced-in yard behind the house to start her daily chores.

The chickens were temperamental, as always, and squawked at her angrily. She narrowly avoided their snaps to her wrists. "I hate chickens," she muttered to herself, placing the last egg in her basket. "They're too costly to keep for all their trouble."

The two thick-set ponies in the pasture were more welcoming, nuzzling her in a friendly manner. She laid out a bale of hay for them, and then moved towards the shed that adjoined the pasture, where the goat and her own mare stayed. Sioda was no sturdy pony – she was a horse, from the faraway land of Iberia. Aerin had raised her from a filly, after purchasing her from a certain traveling merchant. The mare wickered gently upon seeing her mistress, and Aerin patted her neck in response, smoothing down the sleek gray fur.

By the time all her duties were finished, it was nearly noon. Aerin hurried from her home, making for the village square, where Robert the healer, whom she was apprenticed to, was waiting for her. The young woman entered the dim, pleasant smelling cottage with a slightly sullen air, barely nodding to the aging medicine-man.

He sneered at her in return, commanding, "Wind that clean cloth into bandage-rolls."

She quietly did as she was told, remembering a time long past, when her mother had been the village healer, and she hadn't had to wind tons of bandages. A sigh escaped her; how she missed the witty woman who had brought her into the world. It had been her mother who had inspired her to take up healing, and sometimes, it was only the desire to honor her mother's memory that kept her from storming out of Robert's presence and her apprenticeship.

It had been nearly forty-five minutes when the cottage door flew open, admitting bright afternoon light as well as a young girl.

"What is it, child?" Robert asked the disheveled girl.

Breathing heavily, she blurted out, "My mother said to get Aerin because Hydref is about to lose her babe!"

Aerin did not even register her master's nod of approval as she raced out of the healer's cottage in a flurry, the younger girl on her heels. "My mother and sister and Mary Smithson are already there," the girl informed her.

As they reached the cottage belonging to the afflicted woman, Aerin picked up the sound of pained wails. She turned and murmured, "You run along and play, Ithela."

The girl shot her a grateful, wide-eyed glance and sprinted off. Aerin took a deep breath and opened the door. A woman, the source of the wails, lay sprawled on a bed in the cramped, dark room, and three other women hovered worriedly next to her. Their heads snapped up as they heard Aerin enter.

"What's -" Aerin attempted to ask, but was cut off by the somber expressions of the other women.

The eldest, Ilar, who looked to be in her forties, shook her head, defeated. "Do something to soothe her, Aerin. The poor dear couldn't pull through."

Three times before – three! – this had happened to Hydref, and Aerin had been unable to do anything. Sympathy and pity overwhelmed her, and she began to brew a drink that would quiet the woman and ease her pain as the other women murmured comforting words, stroking Hyrdref's forehead gently. When Aerin brought the finished potion to the woman, Hydref spat out, "Couldn't be bothered to help a Briton like me, could you, you spawn of murdering foreigners?"

Aerin clenched her fists and bit her lip until it bled, not trusting herself to say anything. _She's in a lot of pain, _she told herself, and that took the edge off the emotions. Each miscarriage had warranted the same reaction from Hydref. The other women kept their mouths shut, following Aerin's lead and choosing not to involve themselves. The stress of the event weighed down on her as she left the cottage a quarter of an hour later, side-by-side with Ilar and her elder daughter, Llian.

The elder woman put her arm around Aerin. "Don't pay any mind to what Hydref said; she's grieving very deeply. We all know you did your best."

All the pent up emotion within her was released, and Aerin cried, "Oh, Ilar, to have the death of another child on me – I cannot bear it!"

"Hush, Aerin," Ilar replied. "There is no stain upon your soul, I swear."

The young woman bowed her head, letting the statement settle within her. In a contemplative manner, she ran a hand through the long, yellow hair that was her curse. "Ilar, tell me truthfully," she began.

"Anything," the woman replied, though there was a wary look in her eyes.

"When you look at me, do you see the savage Gael that everyone else sees?"

Ilar's eyes suddenly blazed with fury. "Heavens, child! I see a lass who is as good-hearted as her mother was."

"My mother was a Gael, too," Aerin reminded. "A Gael who never meant to leave her land; she had no love for this country."

"But you do, dear. And you are a good person, as she was."

Aerin was grateful beyond words for the matronly woman's assuring certainty. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it. Go home and rest now. You've had a trying day." Ilar turned to her daughter, who had remained silent during Aerin's near-breakdown. "Llian, go with her; help her if she needs anything."

The girl bobbed her head and slipped her hand into Aerin's companionably. "Of course."

They parted ways, the two young women talking seriously as they walked to Aerin's cottage. "Don't feel too badly," Llian counseled. "There was nothing you could have done."

Aerin appraised her friend. Llian was younger than the apprentice healer at sixteen, and pretty, with very dark blonde hair and deep brown eyes. She was engaged to marry a lad in the spring. Aerin was happy for the girl, but deep within her, she also harbored a bit of jealousy. Llian was in love; she and her beau were marrying not because their parents had arranged it but because they wanted to. Aerin knew that she would never have that – love was too much to hope for. She would be lucky if anyone married her at this point. All the other girls her age were either married or engaged, and yet, no one had asked for her hand. Usually Aerin was able to push romantic thoughts out of her mind by focusing on her tasks, but sometimes, such as then, they nearly consumed her. She shook her head to clear it as Llian asked a question. "Do you – do you think the same thing will happen to me, after I marry Nathan?"

Aerin frowned. "I hope not," she said truthfully. "Your mother never had any trouble; nor should you."

When they reached Aerin's home, they set to mending the torn clothes that had piled up recently. For some time, they worked in silence, until eventually Llian ventured, "Will you come berry-picking with me tomorrow? Just the two of us?"

"Sure," Aerin agreed readily. "We can take Sioda up to the western ridge. There are blackberries growing there in plenty this late in the summer."

"Good idea – we'll be sure to be alone, as well, since it's such a trek from here."

"You wouldn't like to invite any of your other friends? Or your sister?" Aerin asked.

Llian shook her head. "Not this time. You're the only one who isn't begging me for all the latest details about Nathan and me."

Aerin grinned compliantly as Llian continued. "I want to go as maidens, together, one last time."

When they had finished darning all the clothes – which had been mostly shirts and breeches belonging to Aerin's family – the healer's apprentice sent Llian home to rest, thanking her for her help.

Once alone, Aerin saddled up Sioda and set out on the path that led to the field where her father and brother labored daily. On her way, she passed fertile cropland, tilled by villagers. Their village grew mostly wheat, beans, and grapevines, as well as a few apple trees. Other vegetables were grown in individual gardens behind the cottages.

Aerin spotted her brother and slowed her mare to a trot, pulling up next to Dafydd. He looked up, sweaty and dirty. "Aerin! How was your day?"

She slid off her mare, shaking her head as the remembered sorrow crashed down on her. "Hydref lost her babe."

Dafydd frowned, and immediately collected his elder sister in a consoling hug. "Again? It couldn't have been your fault."

"Aye, daughter," Gethin said as he approached, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. "God must bear some anger towards her."

Aerin disagreed with that particular statement, but as always, she held her tongue. "It does not matter now," she fibbed.

Dafydd narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Did she say something to you?"

"I said it doesn't matter."

But Dafydd was already simmering. "She called you Gaelic scum, didn't she? Didn't she?"

"Enough, son," their father admonished. "She just said that she doesn't care."

The lad didn't even take a breath. "But she does – and I do as well! Any insult to Aerin is an insult to me; we're of the same blood and were born in the same land. If anyone has anything to say about her blood, then they deal with me!" Dafydd was thundering now, frightening the skittish Sioda and drawing concerned looks from the other laborers.

Attempting to calm her mare, Aerin gave her brother a pleading look. "Please."

Dafydd shut his mouth and glared at the onlookers until they directed their gazes elsewhere.

"You always did have your mother's temper, my son."

_What a pair we make, _Aerin thought. _Dafydd with the temper of our Gaelic mother, and me with her looks. _"I better go," she said, climbing back atop Sioda. "Do you want anything special for supper?"

Dafydd was immediately distracted by thoughts of food. "No chance of any pork, is there?"

"Sorry." Aerin shook her head.

"How about eggs and beans, then?" Gethin suggested.

"Very well," she replied, though she was thoroughly sick of eggs. "I'll see you at home, then." She tugged on Sioda's reins and rode back to the village at a canter, pulling up short as she found her path blocked by a few women her own age. She nodded briefly to them and continued past them; these girls were Hydref's friends and she didn't want to have any sort of conversation with them at the moment.

"Hey, Aerin, stop!" One of the girls called.

She turned Sioda back around to face them, paling. She knew exactly what was coming. "Yes, Gwener?"

The middle girl exchanged glances with her two companions before speaking. "We know what you've done."

Aerin sighed, and opened her mouth to ask just what they thought she'd done, but another girl, Lowri, cut her off. "Don't you dare try to deny it! You've never gotten along with Hydref because she's beautiful and married and everything else you'll never be! You're jealous – we know you are – that's why you've been causing all her misfortunes."

The healer was shocked by the malice in the other girl's voice. _What am I to do now? Anything I do, they will call guilty. _"I-" The weight of the accusation fell upon her, and she felt helpless tears fill her eyes as the third girl, Nesta, spat out, "Bet you learned poisoning from your witch mother."

Aerin finally found her voice. "You're wrong."

Gwener sneered at her. "What did you say?" She prompted in an oddly light tone.

"I said you're wrong."

"Look," Nesta continued. "It's our word against yours, pagan."

Aerin was trembling with anger at the insult to her mother. She knew that if she stayed, she'd only be inviting more hurt, more accusations. She jerked Sioda's reins and turned slowly around. "I said you're wrong," she repeated, with nothing else to say. She forced herself to keep her head high, proud, and fought the urge to signal Sioda to quicken her pace.

When she finally reached home, she dismounted hurriedly, wiping at her eyes before any tears could fall.

That night, after eating dinner in silence, Aerin knelt at the gap in her outer wall that served as her window, gazing almost fervently at the dark, cloudy sky. She hadn't prayed in a long time – not since the day her mother had died.

"Oh, Ffraid, great goddess, have mercy on me." The old priest of the village who had taught her to read and write in not one but three languages – begrudgingly, at the command of her mother – had warned her against belief in the old deities, saying that Rome's holy Deus was the one and only God who deserved her faith. So Aerin had prayed to the God of her father. But something in her refused to let the ways of her birth land die, and she continued to pray to the celestial beings her mother had worshipped, as well. By her reasoning, she could pray to whomever she wished – God, and Ffraid and the others, lived in the same heaven; surely they all worked together for the benefit of mankind?

**The Next Morning... **

"Look, come over here!" Llian called cheerfully, basket swinging. "A whole patch of blackberries, ripe for the eating."

Aerin hurried over. Llian's irresistible enthusiasm had long infected her, as had the unusually clear and sunny skies. She smiled when she saw the berries. "We've eaten so many already," she teased.

Llian grinned, turning her purple-stained palms over for her friend's inspection. "Oh, come now, a few more won't hurt."

The two girls sat down in the thick, green grass and began picking, half of the berries going into their baskets and the other half into their mouths. Sioda trotted over, and Aerin slipped her a slice of dried apple as she listened to Llian. "You know, Cennydd hasn't come yet this season."

Aerin nodded. "I know. I'm sure he'll be along soon, though."

"I hope so. He always brings the most wonderful trinkets from the south."

"Aye."

"He's a nice young man, too. Even your father likes him – he's eaten at your home many times.

Aerin smiled at pleasant memories. "Do you remember the time he brought Sioda for me? He let me have her half-price."

"Yes, she was only a filly then. She surprised us all – one look into those eyes and your stern father was building a shed just for her. And she survived the first winter. Honestly, I never thought she'd make it; she was so tiny and frail-looking."

The healer laughed. "She's a monster compared to our ponies now!"

Llian giggled. "A gorgeous one, you mean. Cenydd said he picked her out just for you. I'm glad you've got such a good friend."

"He's still under the impression that I saved his life," Aerin said, rolling her eyes.

"Of course you saved his life! You took a Woad arrow from his side, all by yourself, and all he has to show for it is a small scar."

Aerin shrugged and blushed shyly. "Anyone could have done the same."

"Aye," Llian laughed. "But you were fifteen, and he was what – seventeen?"

The other girl sighed, knowing that no one would ever listen to her version of the story after Cennydd had proclaimed his own highly glorified rendition of what had happened on that long-ago day.

Aerin was laughing, nearly hysterical, at a joke Llian had told her, clutching her sides in pleasant pain, when Sioda's ears pricked up and she whinnied and reared, her eyes rolling into her head in sudden fear.

"Sioda?" Aerin breathed in confusion as she grabbed the mare's reins, blackberries spilling out of her overflowing basket. "Hush, hush." Another sound reached her ears, then, and Llian clutched at her arm. Deep drums, their echoes bouncing off the south hills, were sounding in the north. Both girls had heard those sounds before, but never so close. _Saxon drums. _

"Oh, save us," Llian whispered. The girls had paled in terror.

"Come on, we've got to get back to the village," Aerin hissed, climbing atop Sioda and offering a hand to Llian. Within moments, they were racing through the trees, down the steep path of the western ridge and into the valley. By the time they reached the outskirt farms, they were screaming.

"Attack, attack!"

The villagers had, of course, already heard the drums. Most rushed about wildly as they streamed back from the fields, searching for ways in which they could defend themselves. The two girls dismounted, and Llian rushed off to find her family.

Aerin looked about, holding tightly to her mare's reins. Around her, men were arming themselves with their farming implements: pitchforks, rakes, and the like. A few found bows and hunting knives. Sioda at her heels, Aerin ran to the pasture of her own cottage, where she found the ponies tense and on edge. She led them both out, clucking her tongue soothingly. It was not long before she spotted Marged, the eldest woman in the village, struggling to keep up with the fleeing women and children. Aerin rushed to her, helping her mount the first pony and sending them off in the direction of the south hills.

Next she found Mary Smithson, clutching her five-year old daughter while yelling at her two elder sons, Emlyn and Emrys, to catch up to the rest.

"No," Emlyn, who at twelve was the oldest of his siblings, protested. "I'm not leavin' you."

"Emlyn..." Somehow, Mary managed to make her voice both exasperated and threatening at the same time. Aerin approached them, taking the little girl in her arms and placing her on the other gentle pony's back.

"Go, all of you," she commanded, handing the reins to Emlyn as Mary took her other son's hand.

Having done all she could, and confident that her family's two ponies would help get the village women and children to safety, Aerin led Sioda deeper into the village.

She spun around as a hand grabbed her shoulder and a voice demanded, "Why are you still here?" Though he was gripping the family ax confidently, Aerin could see that Dafydd's knuckles were white, and that he was doing his best not to tremble.

Ignoring his implied order to run, she asked, "Has anyone been sent for help?"

"Yes. Tomos was sent to Rhostyllen town. They have fighting men." His voice was terse, betraying his nervousness. "Now go."

Aerin frowned. "You'll need all the help you can get if we're to hold off until help arrives. I can handle a blade, remember?"

"Aerin, the Saxons will kill you if you stay, healer or no!"

"As they will kill everyone else," she shot back. "Robert went with the women and children – I'm staying here to help."

"Don't you dare, Aerin! Take Sioda and go!"

Aerin was about to reply when a voice called, "Help, please!" She spun around. Hydref's husband, Adda, was the one yelling, supporting his shaking wife as best he could. Aerin went to them, knowing what she must do.

"Here," she said, in what she hoped was an authoritative voice, and held Sioda's reins out. "She's got a very smooth canter."

Adda looked gratefully at her and lifted Hydref to to Sioda's saddle. The woman clutched the mare's neck weakly, hunched over, and Sioda was off, racing away to safety.

"Thank you," Adda murmured before he rushed away, bow in hand.

Aerin returned to Dafydd. "See? Now I have no horse to get me away. If I tried to flee on foot, I'd be killed from behind – a most dishonorable way to die."

"Hide inside until it's over," Dafydd ordered, accepting that he would not win the argument. "And don't let them catch you."

Shouts abruptly began to fill the air, accompanied by the clanging of steel and the _twanging _of bowstrings. "Be careful," Dafydd said as his feet carried him away to join the battle in the northern fields.

"You, too," she called, praying that he would hear her. She took a deep breath, tasting the scent of smoke and burning things in the air. She turned, making her way to their own cottage.

Once in her room, Aerin bent down, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of the worn trunk at the foot of her bed. When finally she pried it open, she dug furiously through the folded blankets and trinkets at the top until she found it – the dirk that had belonged to her mother, that Aerin hadn't touched in four years. It lay in its mahogany scabbard, waiting for her to reach out and take it.

When she did, she instantly felt the spirit of her mother around her, and the emotion left her breathless, but only for a moment. Rushing again, she slid the sheathed dirk into her belt and slung her medicine pouch over her shoulder. She closed the trunk and dashed out, her brother's warning ignored.

**Camelot, later that same evening... **

The city was all in commotion. A man bearing news of an attack by Saxons on a village had arrived not half an hour before, begging for aid. And who was Arthur to refuse it? His people needed help – not to mention that this new army of Saxons needed a lesson in foreign policy.

The King of all the Britons called a meeting in dining hall of the new manor. At that hour, the place was empty, so the knights had relative privacy as they gathered around the now-legendary Round Table (which had been moved from its old location).

Arthur looked around. Some of the faces staring back at him were familiar – his brothers-in-arms, whom he had worried about and laughed with for fifteen years. The majority, though, belonged to new recruits. They were men who had come from all over Britain to offer their services to the king in exchange for the honor and glory that came with being a Knight of the Round Table. All told, Arthur had twenty knights under his command – twenty elite fighters who were the pride and joy of the whole of Arthur's army.

He quickly gave them the story, receiving mixed reactions. The new additions smiled eagerly at another chance to prove their worth, while the five Sarmatians were quiet as they exchanged glances.

"Well, knights?" Arthur prompted.

"Aye," they chorused. "Let's get moving."

Arthur held up his hands. "Hold on. Only Bors, Galahad, and Gawain will come with me. Lancelot, you organize extra guards for the wall, and Tristran, gather fifty soldiers and have them report to me at the gate in half an hour. The rest of you should continue with your daily duties."

The newer knights filed out, grumbling among themselves, along with Tristran, who, unlike Lancelot, knew better than to argue with their commanding officer.

"Arthur, be reasonable!" Lancelot shouted, face-to-face with Arthur. "I've had three months of recovery, four months of plain old training, and two battles, and just because I mention once, in passing, that my old wound twinges a bit, you've taken me off duty permanently. This is ridiculous!"

Calm as always, Arthur replied, "I'm not taking any risks with your health, Lancelot. I've been just as careful with Tristran."

"He still gets to go scouting every bloody day!"

"I'm not going to endanger your life just because you're feeling slightly bored," Arthur said patiently, as if he had explained it all hundreds of times before.

Furious, the dark-haired knight slammed his fist down on the Table. "Slightly bored? Arthur, I'm ready to jump off the Wall – I've gone through every woman at the tavern by now!"

"Hey!" Gawain broke in. "What about that curly-haired wench I've had my eye on?"

Lancelot adopted an expression of deep thought, completely distracted as he tried to remember. "Oh, her," he said dismissively. "Three weeks ago. Gave some good kisses but –"

"Enough!" Galahad exclaimed, for once playing peacemaker as Bors restrained Gawain from tackling Lancelot. "Shut up, the lot of you, and let's go already!"

"For once the Whelp makes sense," Bors added, earning a glare from the youngest of them. "We don't want to give the bloody enemy _too _much of a head start. Lancelot, just deal with your emotions like an adult for once, will ya?"

Surprising everyone, Lancelot stopped arguing immediately and stalked away to carry out Arthur's command about the wallguard. Bors caught the impressed stares of his comrades and puffed out his chest. "Ha! Did you see that?"

The other knights rolled their eyes, but Arthur gave Bors a half-smile. "Come. Tristran has probably assembled a division for us already."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story.**

**I know I only posted the first chapter last night, and this is kind of early, but I had some free time today and when I get into 'writing mode' I can't stop, so yeah, here it is. **

**Pronunciation Guide: **

**Dafydd: DAV-i_th_ (Welsh form of David)**

**Adda: AH – _th_a**

**Rhostyllen: RHOS-tee-_ll_en**

**This is a shorter chapter than the first, and is the last of the "background" chapters (I think). **

**Thanks for continuing to read! All reviews are welcome. Enjoy! :) **

Ever Homeward 

Aerin stood well behind the makeshift defense lines – overturned wheelbarrows and some large logs, for the most part – as she tended to the injuries inflicted by the first Saxon charge. The enemy had withdrawn temporarily, giving hope to the village men. Aerin secretly felt relief, as well, just as they all did; when she had caught sight of the nearly two hundred enemy soldiers marching through the wheat fields like an ice flow, she had thought they were all done for. Somehow, though, the thirty or so village men had formed lines of archers, and had caused enough damage to the initial vanguard of Saxons that the two sides had only clashed briefly.

The healer looked up from bandaging Bram the blacksmith's left shoulder. It wasn't a terribly bad wound, only a painful bruise that had come from the edge of a Saxon shield. "There, good as new." She was already feeling grateful for all the monotonously long days of winding bandages at Robert's bidding – by the heavens, she had used nearly a third of the supply already!

The blacksmith flexed his shoulder and hefted his hammer. "Thanks, lass. Much obliged."

Momentarily pleased with herself, Aerin stretched her aching back and wiped her bloodied, dirty hands on her once-white apron, surveying those about her. Satisfied that all the men were properly cared for, she turned her gaze outwards, past the village.

Nightfall, usually one of the most peaceful times of the day, was slowly approaching. Even the air seemed tense, as if waiting for some camouflaged wildcat to pounce. Out of the darkening atmosphere, towards the east, came a spark of light. Aerin thought it was a firefly until she realized with a start that it was a torch, far in the distance. She was about to shout a warning, but a hand clapped over her mouth, muffling her scream.

"Hush, I'm a friend," a man's voice whispered, and the hand was removed from her mouth. Aerin spun around to face her assailant-who-was-not-an-assailant, meeting wide green eyes. He was definitely a Briton, by the looks of him, a few years older than she. He was lightly armed with a dagger – but armed nonetheless.

"Who are you?"

"A messenger, scout, whatever term you please. I've come to tell your men that the village of Rhostyllen has sent forty-five armed militia-men. They are waiting on the eastern ridge; see the single torch?"

Aerin nodded, a spark of hope lighting within her. "Yes. Come and repeat your news to the men. They'll be glad to hear it." She led the man to the small hillock where the men were grouped. They listened to the Rhostyllen messenger and told him to bring his fellows into the village under the cover of darkness. They would need all the help they could get if they were to repel the Saxons a second time.

Aerin watched from the edges of the group as sturdy Rhostyllen men slipped into the village, ready for battle and seemingly unaffected by their long trek. She also caught a few suspicious glances, but brushed them off without saying anything, making it clear that she was a healer. To prepared yet nervous men, with thoughts of the enemy on their minds, she knew she looked more like a Saxon than anything else.

The night wore on, and everyone grew more on edge. Aerin couldn't help but be fearful – even with the reinforcements, what hope could eighty men possibly have against two hundred. She'd heard Bram the blacksmith warning his fellows that the Saxons would not hold back this second time, now that they knew the strength of the villagers.

_Ffraid, please, help us. _She wouldn't dare to even whisper her desperate prayers to the goddess aloud, not in public. Feeling her eyelids fluttering, she sat down on a box in front of the village alehouse, in the center square. Briefly, she wondered if men would ever again gather there on festival days to celebrate. The square was empty, and no noise came from the north, either. Perhaps, she thought, it wouldn't hurt to close her eyes for just a few moments. She leaned back against the alehouse wall, and slept.

…

Aerin woke to the scuffling of a pair of boots moving quietly across the dirt square. It was still dark, and she didn't know how long she had been asleep. Her eyes widened and she was suddenly fully awake as she noticed an unfamiliar man staring at her from across the square. She caught her breath as she saw that he was wearing armor – only a breastplate, but still impressive. No one in all the land for miles and miles owned armor because of its great expense. It was simply not practical for simple farmers, even those that lived north of Hadrian's Wall.

For the second time that day, she asked, "Who are you?"

Unlike the Rhostyllen messenger, this man straightened up and threw her a smart salute. "Tren of Pentwold, and I've come bearing news from Arthur the King, miss."

_King Arthur? _The hero turned legend knew of their plight? Aerin felt the flames of hope, so recently at their lowest ebb, grow. "Let me take you to the front lines, sir. They will be eager for your message."

The man followed her to the north hill, maintaining a respectful distance. Upon seeing her, a farmer named Sior gripped his pitchfork tighter and asked, "Girl, who is this? It's the second time tonight you've brought a newcomer in."

"The King sent him!" Aerin said, and she watched hope fill the faces of the villagers. Excited talk broke out, but then hushed as Gwion, Ilar's husband, shouted for silence. "Well, sir, what have you to say?"

Tren drew himself up. "Your messenger reached the King's city of Camelot early last evening. Our good King has hastened to your aid with a division of men at his back. We circled around the Saxons and even now wait on the east ridge. This will give us the advantage if the enemy attacks in the morning."

Some of the men nodded their heads in approval. Aerin also understood – should the Saxons make their move at dawn, they would have to face the King's men in the east and be hampered by the strong summer sun.

"What about Tomos?" Someone asked of the villager.

"Your man is with us," Tren replied. "Though his pony is rather tired. I will return now, to report back to King Arthur. Do not fear – we will be ready to help." A few moments later he had disappeared into the darkness. Aerin watched him go, and then spotted her father and Dafydd, sitting on some barrels and sharpening javelins with their knives.

Upon seeing her, Gethin drew himself up and said, "Aerin, I worry for you."

Mustering a stern voice as best she could, she replied, "I'm a healer, father. It is my duty to be here."

"Have you slept at all?" Dafydd asked.

Aerin nodded. "A bit. You?"

"Aye. I want to have enough energy for the morning." If he realized that his voice was shaking, he made no attempt to mask it.

"The sun will rise in less than an hour," Gethin put in. "Aerin, I beg you, please go."

Unexpectedly, it was Dafydd who intervened. "She has made the choice to stay, Father. Would she be mother's daughter if she chose any different?"

Aerin was surprised, to say the least. Dafydd almost never brought up their deceased parent in any sort of conversation. She was, however, thankful that he had, because their father bowed his head in defeat, then kissed Aerin's forehead. "Please use caution, child." He tried to pull away, but his daughter was overcome by a sudden rush of emotion and hugged her father tightly.

"You're the one going into battle." She reluctantly ended the embrace after a few moments. It wasn't often her father hugged her, or showed any kind of feeling.

"I'm not worried to go to my Father in heaven. I have two brave, virtuous, and hardworking children who will take good care of each other."

"Father, don't -" Dafydd protested, but Aerin hushed him with a shake of her head, silently communicated that their father needed to have peace. Dafydd hugged her, and she whispered, "Be careful, and prudent."

Her brother threw back his head and laughed, tension easing away. "Ha! Always." He watched her hand settle on the hilt of their mother's dirk. "I'm suddenly glad that she taught you how to use a blade."

Aerin knew that this rather ambiguous statement was meant as a long-overdue apology, from the times when their mother had schooled them both in fighting. Dafydd, like their father, hadn't thought it proper at all for his sister to learn weaponry, and he and Aerin had had quite a few raging arguments over the subject. That had been when the healer had actually wanted to learn bladework, of course, when they had lived in the Isle to the West.

"Me, too," she replied, thrusting away her memories. She gave a last wave to her family and walked off to see if anyone needed her help. She caught a glimpse of the two waving back; it was then that she realized she might never see them alive again. The urge to race back and tell them how much she loved them filled her, but she forced it down. She knew that they had to go into battle knowing that she was strong and could take care of herself.

Aerin sat alone in the hard-packed dirt of the main street, fingers tapping the ground anxiously as she faced east, watching for signs that the sun was rising. About her, the village was all but silent in its near-abandonment. The livestock had been taken south with the women and children, so no roosters crowed to announce the dawn. A few cottage doors creaked open and shut in the breeze; curtains rustled eerily. It was strange – unnatural, even – to see the village like this. Her whole life, it had been busy and bustling – never deserted. She stood up and began pacing, keeping her eyes fixed to the sky, watching always for the sun.

The sky began to lighten, becoming the pink-tinged gray of summer mornings. Tension beat through the her as if it were a poison. She continued to pace. A drum pounded in the distance, as blatantly clear as a birdcall in the silent air. Aerin felt her blood turn to ice, and her feet froze to the ground in fear. "Oh, Ffraid, please watch over us all," she murmured.

With that, she felt herself running, focusing on not tripping over her dress. Somehow, her luck held, and she managed to reach the front lines without incident. With bated breath, she looked on as the village men raised their shields and tightened their grips on their weapons.

Though she had seen it once before, the vicious nature of the Saxon charge made her feel like turning and running. Arrows barely slowed the enemy. The front lines of the Saxon army crashed into the villagers. Shouts filled the air, above the ringing of weapons.

Aerin watched it all, taking a few fearful steps back, like a rabbit ready to bolt. _Stop. They need you. Dafydd needs you. _The thought was enough to make her get a hold of herself. She began to hear pained screams, easily distinguished from the mad cries of battle. _Go on. This is what you've trained for. _She once again put her hand on her mother's dirk, as if it gave her some sort of morbid comfort. She took a step forward, and then another, moving closer to the raging of the battle.

**Review, please? **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story. **

**Note: There is a sprinkling of German in here, because I figured that would be the best substitute for whatever dialect the Saxons used. Translations are at the bottom. **

**I am really eager to hear what you all think, so read, review, and enjoy! **

Ever Homeward 

Aerin was only fifty yards away from the thick of the battle when she saw a man fall, clutching a gash on his leg – Crenn, one of the farmers. That was all that was needed for her training to kick in; she hurried forward, thankful that the Saxon Crenn had crossed blades with had hurled himself back into the battle. When she reached him, Crenn was groaning. His eyes fixed on her as she knelt down beside him, tearing open her medicine pouch. The wound was deep, running from mid-thigh to the top of his knee.

"You'll live," she said, trying to affect a calm voice, though she had to shout to be heard above the roar of the battle. Quickly, she poured a few drops of an alcohol-based potion on the wound, causing Crenn to grit his teeth. "Sorry," she breathed as she worked, fingers flying as she wrapped the injury with clean bandages. "But it'll prevent infection. You never know what that Saxon might have had on his blade." She helped him up, directing him to make his way out of this village - he was in no state to continue fighting.

The thick of the battle was moving deeper and deeper into the village as the Saxons pushed further in. Aerin treated a few more men who had been incapacitated and left on the hillside before turning and following the battle.

The village, so peaceful that morning, had been transformed into a raging field of death. Aerin reeled as the stench of sweat and blood hit her. She'd seen deaths - some due to terrible farming accidents, others brought on by untreatable, messy illnesses - but nothing could compare to battle. Men were spilling each other's blood for the sake of it - ending lives, lives that had once blazed with power, lives that were now being coldly extinguished. Oh, the blood! The ground was slick with it, and the men who had given it were beyond her help. Aerin could administer herbs, and try to ease pain, but the death … it was unbearable. _Focus, girl! _She yelled at herself. _You'll help no one if you think any further. _From that point on, she allowed her body to operate with a mechanical consistency: assess injury, clean and bind wound.

But the screams that came from grown men, the tears that flowed from their eyes and down their grime-stained cheeks... They thrashed in complete and utter pain. Each time Aerin felt her human emotions try to take control of her, she forced them down. She would have time to think later, if she survived, that is.

Expensive glass from windows was smashed ruthlessly, doors broken down by Saxons intent on looting the place. The scent of burning filled Aerin's senses, and she spotted tendrils of smoke coming from the village church. She helped where she could, though she did her best to avoid the Saxons. From what she saw when she got too close, they looked… barbaric, for lack of a better word. Their beards were long and untended, they smelled worse than unwashed goats, and they were deadly with whatever weapons they held.

Guilt filled Aerin whenever she spotted a Saxon with fair hair - did all savages have to look like that? She angrily shook the thought from her mind as she quickly put tiny stitches in a Rhostyllen man's throat that had been stabbed by a Saxon javelin. He probably wouldn't make it through to the next morning, but she had to try, didn't she?

The frustration and sorrow she felt when the man succumbed to unconsciousness consumed her to such a degree that she did not hear the heavy footsteps of a Saxon coming up behind her. It was the first time that an enemy had really taken notice of her.

"Hübsches kleines Ding, nicht wahr (1)?" he asked in a rough, gravelly voice. Aerin spun around, instinctively drawing the dirk as she did so, and stood up. She didn't understand what he asked; she knew plenty of languages, but none of those that were used by Saxons. This, a part of her mind figured, was some Norse dialect. She would remember the sound - if she survived this. The upset over the dying Rhostyllen man, whose name she did not even know, clouded her mind, making her think slowly.

The dirk felt cumbersome, ungainly, not like the extension of her arm that it was supposed to be. _Curse you, Aerin! _She mentally yelled at herself as she glared at the Saxon. _Why haven't you practiced? _

the Saxon laughed, as if he could read her thoughts. "Du denkst, du ausüben kann eine Klinge? Das werden wir ja sehen, meine Kleine (2)."

The playful tone of his voice and the slight grin on his face told Aerin everything she needed to know. She nervously readjusted her grip on the dirk.

When the Saxon swung his flamberge at her, she had no choice but to parry with the dirk. All the lessons she'd had with her mother and brother slowly came back to her as she reflexively slashed with her blade. Parry. Thrust. Step. Parry. Step. Duck. Parry. Step. Parry again. She was getting tired, and fast, taking uncertain steps back. _Ffraid, if I get out of this alive, I promise to train every day. _

As she parried for the third time in a row, too exhausted to make an offensive move, the words of her mother tumbled back to her. _Aerin, my Aerin. When your arms feel about to give out, you must remember that there is strength within you - the strength to protect your family and friends. Find the courage not just to parry but to strike. _

_All right, I hear you, Mother. _Aerin parried for the last time, trying to gather her strength. As the flamberge started on a course for her neck, she ducked quickly beneath the blade and, in one movement, forced her dirk through the Saxon's leather hauberk and into his chest. The sheer energy that the one action sapped from her was unbelievable, and she barely had the strength to pull her blade from the man as he fell backwards. She turned away, unable to watch his dying throes, knowing that she would be incapable of stomaching them.

Instead, she looked to East ridge. Where was the King in their hour of need? No movement came. Aerin looked back to the village in horror. Village men fell to Saxon steel as mice inevitably fall to a cat. There wasn't much time.

The next Saxon that approached her didn't take the time for pleasantries. Viciously, he made a stab at her with his heavy spetum. Using the same tactic as she had with the first Saxon, she stepped quickly around his weapon and cut his throat, feeling her stomach roil as she felt his blood spatter across her face. _Do not throw up. Do not throw up. If you live, there will be time for that later. _

Aerin stepped over his body and made her way to a pile of fallen men. Forcing herself to ignore the collapsed Saxons, she sorted through the dead until she spotted a still-breathing villager. "Adda," she breathed. The man was deathly pale. _No, no, no, you cannot let him die. Not after what happened to Hydref. _Aerin dug through her medicine pouch while simultaneously using her tiny kitchen knife to cut through Adda's tunic. Blood was seeping steadily from a wound just below the man's ribcage.

Aerin took a deep breath and began to clean the cut, obviously made by a spear. She poured a measure of the infection-preventing potion on it, after wiping the grime and most of the blood away. "Adda, please," she whispered. "Be strong. Be strong for Hydref."

The man regarded her from a state of semi-consciousness, through half-closed eyes. "The wound will heal," she went on. "It's deep, yes, but it will mend with time. The real danger is infection, which leads to fever. Please, wake."

"Aerin?" He mumbled.

She nodded. "Yes. I'll sew this up now." Earlier, she had washed all her needles and held them over candle flames in order to make sure they were clean. "Here." She passed Adda the wooden handle of an ax that had been severed from its blade. "Bite down on this."

Hydref's husband did as he was told as Aerin began sewing painstakingly, doing her best to go quickly while still making every stitch as perfect as she could. Finally, she finished, and tied off the sinew she had used as string. "There, it's done," she said. "You'll have to stand up for me to bandage this."

He complied, leaning heavily on her as she wrapped the bandage across his stomach and around his back multiple times. She paused to glance towards the east ridge as she heard the blaring of a horn. "Look, look!" She shouted.

A sea of cavalry had appeared at the top of the east ridge. Even from the valley, Aerin could see the red standard of the King unfurling gloriously in the wind. With battle cries that echoed off the cliffs, the mounted men spurred their horses onward and began a racing descent into the valley. Aerin swore that she could see the glint of the sun on their steel. The sight was so amazing that in her awe, she said aloud, "Ffraid, high goddess of heaven, you have answered my prayers."

She caught Adda's stunned look and felt her cheeks pale, even as slight color returned to his. He said nothing.

Around them, the battle had momentarily paused as everyone gazed at the splendor of the men of Britain. The Saxons, desperate now, shook the wonder from their minds and began fighting even harder.

Aerin turned to Adda. "Go, join the others to the South. You're no use here. We'll be fine now."

He still regarded her oddly, as if shocked by her praise to Ffraid. Would he tell? If Hydref found out, Aerin would be in trouble - perhaps she'd be exiled as a pagan, or worse, burned as a witch by some of the more fervent Christians. After what seemed like eternity, he said, "Very well. Thank you. For everything. Be safe." He was gone in an instant, making his way towards refuge.

Aerin thought she could feel the vibrations of the ground as the King and his soldiers rode into the village, breaking through a Saxon shield-wall. Her eyes took in the sight of the fighters as if they were holy emissaries from God. The man at the forefront rode a white horse and had a large but somehow elegant sword. _That must be King Arthur. _Most of the men who rode behind him had the look of Britons, obviously trained and well-armed. Many wore dark red tunics over their armor. Others were different - Woads, painted blue. Heaven knew that Aerin had seen enough of them, though now they were allies to the kingdom.

It was the three men who most closely flanked the King that held Aerin's attention longest. They, she knew, were Sarmatian Knights. Oh, the tales she had head of them! Incredibly brave, and loyal to the King to the last. She could barely see their faces at the distance, however. The largest knight let out a wild-sounding cry that was taken up by the entire division, including King Arthur himself.

"Rus!"

The sound resonated within Aerin as if it was an angel chorus, and she felt the urge to join in, though she didn't. At last, she managed to tear her gaze away from them and turned back to the battle that raged around her, once more in full swing.

As she wove her way from injured villager to injured villager, she felt the tide of battle turning and the Saxons being pushed back, step by step. At one point, she was pushed along with them, into the main square. It was completely in flames, and the fire was spreading rapidly throughout the village. Aerin forced her way out of the square, coughing from the smoke.

She nearly tripped over another Rhostyllen man, who was breathing even more heavily than she. He had a slash across his chest that looked as if it had been made by some sort of sword. It was deep; there would be no saving him. Even so, she knelt down and cradled his head in her arms, trying to soothe his writhing.

She didn't have the heart to encourage him to hush - he had spent his final living moments as a hero, giving his life for his land. As far as she was concerned, he could end in whatever fashion he wanted. Furthermore, she was sure that if it had been her in his place, she would have had quite a time trying to stay quiet. She did, however, say, "Be brave, the pain will soon pass."

If her supply of poppy hadn't been dangerously low, she would have given him some. "The pain will pass," she repeated. "Do not fear." The surreal quality of the moment disappeared as she felt a sharp blade at her throat. Gently, she set the dying man's head down and stood, trying to hold her head up in a dignified manner.

Her dirk was sheathed - there was no way she could get it into her hands in time. She met the eyes of her assailant. They were wild, bloodthirsty.

_I will die nobly. All wounds in the front,_ she promised herself. _No matter the pain, I will not turn my back to him. _The Saxon surely intended to kill her. He turned his long knife against her skin until the point of it touched her throat. If he were to put even an ounce more force into it, the blood would start running, and she'd be dead in ten minutes or less. The disgusting smell that came from him made her want to vomit, and the cold look in his eyes terrified her.

"Du bist tot (3)." His leering face was all she saw.

At that moment, the voice of her mother filled Aerin's mind like floodwater. _Well, what are you waiting for, girl? Defy him! _She couldn't remember if Ẻvlin had ever said that - but it didn't matter, because the words gave her courage.

"Hurry up and finish this," she spat out, but her thoughts had been on her mother, and she did not speak in the common language, Welsh, but in Gaelic. "You think you'll be able to boast to your fellows that it took you hours to kill a mere girl?"

Suddenly, there was a half-moon ax at the man's neck.

"Release her," a voice growled in Welsh. "Like she said, there's no honor in killing defenseless."

…

It had been heavy fighting - nothing they couldn't handle, but heavy nonetheless. As the group of Camelot soldiers split up, Galahad found himself next to Arthur. Both men were still on their warhorses - a rare thing. Usually they were all unhorsed within two seconds flat. (Except, of course, for Galahad himself, who had always prided himself on being able to stay in the saddle far longer than the other Knights could.)

The youngest knight thrust his sword into the back of a Saxon who had tried to sneak up on Arthur from behind. A heartbeat later, Arthur had decapitated three men who had advanced on Galahad in seamless, powerful strokes.

_Damn it! They'll all hear about this in the mess hall tonight. And no one will hear __that I just saved Arthur's sorry Roman life!_ Though he did have great respect for his commander (he would never admit it, not even under torture) - the heat of battle was getting to him.

Bors was bellowing, unleashing death with his wrist blades farther away from the main party, closer to the center of the village. He felt something crash into his back and spun around, nearly killing the Woad out of habit before he realized in the nick of time that they were fighting Saxons, and that this time the Woads were friends. He hauled the blue-painted fighter to his - or was it her? (one could never tell) - feet with a quick, "S'rry." Sure, he felt rather stupid for his mistake, but someone else - definitely Galahad - was bound to do something, well, stupider.

He looked up from the carcass of a Saxon he'd just skewered to see a familiar form on a horse not ten spans away. "Gawain, watch your back," he called out as he noticed a sneaky-looking enemy approach the other knight from behind.

Gawain heeded Bors's warning and turned in the saddle an instant before he saw a man lunge for his head. He ducked, and stilled the Saxon permanently with a well-aimed dagger. Unlike Galahad, Gawain saw nothing, thought nothing, but the battle around him. His mind was enveloped in a red haze that hovered around the corners of his vision. Somehow it did not hamper him; instead, it aided him, sharpening his focus.

A few minutes longer and he was unhorsed but uninjured, managing to regain his footing as quickly as the animal he was always compared to. As luck would have it, the current of the battle separated him from his mount and forced him to a less crowded area, away from the burning village square. Gawain began to pick off whatever Saxons were around, but mostly this area had been abandoned.

Out of nowhere, he heard a Saxon voice say in whatever Norse language, "Du bist tot." Gawain didn't know many Saxon words - every new invading group spoke a different dialect - but he did know one, "tot." _Dead? _

He spun around to see a knife-wielding Saxon menacing, of all unexpected things, a young woman. _Yeah, she's dead. Or would be, if I weren't here. _Gawain stepped forward, expecting the girl to scream for help. To his surprise, he heard her speak in a measured, angry voice - in Gaelic. _Gaelic? Why the bloody hell is she speaking Gaelic? _That was a language Gawain _did _know.

"Déan deifir agus críochnaigh. Cé chomh fada a thógann sé ar chailín a mharú (4)?" She spat at the Saxon. It took the knight's mind a moment to translate, but when he did, he was mildly impressed_. Well, that took guts. Not that he can understand her. __All right, all right, time to step in. _

He came up behind the Saxon, and put his ax to the man's neck. "Release her. There's no honor in killing defenseless."

The Saxon turned to face him, raising his hands above his head and dropping his knife in indication of surrender. "Sit down, against that wall," Gawain commanded, gesturing so that the other man would understand his meaning. The Saxon obeyed, immediately moving to sit with his back to the outer wall of a cottage.

The woman nodded at him, though her blue eyes were icy, as if she were still gazing at the Saxon. "Táim buíoch," she said, once more in Gaelic. In an instant, though, she adopted an expression of fear and said sharply, "Taobh thiar duit!"

_Behind you! _Gawain registered the warning and turned to meet a Saxon's falling hammer.

**Translations:(German) **

**Hübsches kleines Ding, nicht wahr?****: Pretty little thing, aren't you**

**Du denkst, du ausüben kann eine Klinge****? ****Das werden wir ja sehen, meine Kleine****:You think you can wield a knife? We will see.**

**Du ****bist**** tot: You are dead. **

** Translations: (Gaelic)**

**Déan deifir agus críochnaigh. Cé chomh fada a thógann sé ar chailín a mharú? Hurry up and finish this. You think you'll be able to boast that it took you hours to kill a mere girl?**

**Taim buioch****: Thank you. **

**Taobh thiar duit****: Behind you!**

**So, what do you think? Review or PM with any comments or suggestions, please! **


	4. Chapter 4

** Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story. **

**All right, so, here we have the first real interaction between Aerin and the knights. :) **

**Huge, huge thanks to homeric and vicklyd for reviewing, and to anyone else who favorited/subscribed. You guys are great and really inspired me to keep writing! **

**I just wanted to say that I am thrilled to have gotten reviews, and so as a present, here is an extra-long chapter. Enjoy! **

Ever Homeward 

The healer's apprentice stood motionless as she fixed her eyes on the knight who had saved her. He engaged the hammer-wielding enemy with the same confidence she had seen in the other Camelot soldiers. Their fighting style was so different from the villagers - next to them, even the sturdy Rhostyllen men looked like children. Each individual encounter was a dance, elegant in its sheer deadliness. That was the way her mother had fought.

Gawain gritted his teeth in determination and feinted at the Saxon's head. It wasn't his usual technique to do such fancy things - which was why he preferred his ax over his broadsword. Of course, though, sometimes necessity dictated, as it was doing now. The current Saxon was much taller and physically more powerful than he was - almost a giant - and he had to use strategy instead of his normal, more forthright manner. Before the Saxon could parry, Gawain sank his ax into the man's shoulder , nearly cutting off his arm, and then went for the kill.

Close behind him, he heard a sudden gasp, the clattering of metal as it hit the ground, and the _thud _of something heavy as it fell. Gawain spun around, ax raised, but found that he did not need it. The man whose life he'd spared - the man who had sat against the wall - was lying on the ground, facedown, with his knife still clutched in his fist. Blood spilled from a wound in his back.

Gawain looked up, staring at the girl, who held the hilt of her dirk with both hands. As he regarded her, understanding immediately what had happened - as well as what had nearly happened - she let her weapon fall. Her face was pale in revulsion and shock at what she had done.

_Killed a man from behind. That's not honorable in the least. What would mother have said? Look, look at the blood on my hands! _Aerin was overcome with horror at her actions as the memories of the men who had died before her tried to break through her mental barriers. She noticed the knight looking at her. _Probably regrets saving my life now that I've done something so vulgar. _

It had been without hesitation that she had plunged the dirk into the Saxon's back when she saw him stand and step forward, knife raised to kill the knight - from behind. _He was a coward. And so are you, for killing him, _she thought_. _

"Buíochas a ghabháil … leat as a shábháil mo shaol (1)," Gawain said in faltering Gaelic, unsure of his handle on the language. It was a relief when the girl stopped staring at her bloody hands and replied in Welsh.

"We're even, then."

"Even," Gawain agreed in kind, as suddenly a familiar yell sounded. "Rus!" The knight raised his ax and joined in, out of habit. The conflict was won.

He turned back to the girl. Now that the red haze of battle was fading, his mind focused on other things - namely, the suspicious fact that he'd heard the girl speak the language of Britain's enemies.

"You speak the Gaelic of the Scots," he accused. _You look like one, too. _

The girl immediately bristled. "What an astute observation."

The pounding of horse hooves announced the presence of another knight. "Gawain, here you are!" Galahad proclaimed from his saddle, ignoring the carnage and focusing on his brother - in - arms. "How did you hold up?"

Gawain shrugged. "Well enough. You?"

"I'll have a black eye tomorrow. And I think my fingers are broken."

"Broken fingers?" The girl asked in a much kinder voice than she had spoken to Gawain with, and approached the younger knight. "I'm a healer."

"Uh - thanks," Galahad said intelligently, holding his hand out to her, as Bors rode over, sporting a bandaged forehead.

"Gawain, Gawain, Gawain. Why is it that you're never seen without a woman at your side?"

The girl blushed and stared fixedly at Galahad's fingers. "Aye, they're definitely broken. Would you like me to splint them for you?"

"Sure." Galahad's reply was cut off by another light-hearted statement from Bors. "She from your tribe, Gawain? She's got the blue eyes and light hair. Actually, hers looks a lot nicer than that mane o' yours."

"Lay off, Bors," Gawain answered. "Or I'll tell Vanora - after I hit you with my ax, that is."

Galahad smirked as Bors didn't answer. "That certainly shut you up, didn't it? Congratulations to Gawain are in order, I think."

"So, miss, what brings you to a battle such as this one, eh?" Bors asked - as respectfully as he ever did.

"This is my village - or what's left of it. I- I stayed behind to treat the injured. And, Sir, I am not at any man's side." As she had offered, the girl was setting Galahad's fingers in individual wooden splints.

Gawain shrugged. "Appears you're at Galahad's."

She looked about to rebuke him, but at that moment she pulled a bit too hard on one of the bindings for Galahad's hand. "Ouch!" The youngest knight broke in, cursing worse than Lancelot on a bad day. "Watch it!"

"This would be finished much more quickly if you'd stop squirming like a tadpole!" The girl shot back, ignoring his terrible language.

Silence fell, as the other two knights waited to see the temperamental knight's reaction. That is, until Bors could hold in his mirth no longer. "Tadpole! Ha! That's a new one!" Any further commentary on his part was cut off by his booming laughter.

Gawain grinned. "I don't think he'll forget that one, Galahad."

"There, it's done," the girl said. "Get the splints changed tomorrow. The fingers will probably swell, too." Galahad inspected his injured hand, deciding that he approved of the three splinted fingers.

"Thanks, um -"

"Aerin."

"Right, then." Gawain smirked as he saw the hint of a blush touch Galahad's face, and the younger knight turned and rode off, followed by Bors, who winked at his friend.

"Arthur called us all together at the south side of the village. Women an' children are comin' back, and the men are putting out whatever fires are left."

"I'll meet you there, then."

Bors's laughter at Gawain's so-called "gallant streak" rang out loudly as he turned his horse south.

Gawain saw Aerin cringe, and her cheeks turned crimson. Gawain couldn't help a laugh, himself. "Bors is always like that. He doesn't mean any harm."

"Thank you for your assurances, Gawain of the Round Table." Though the comment itself was caustic, the girl's voice was not. He listened as she went on. "And just so you can rest easy, I'm not a Scot, and I'm not going to murder you in your sleep."

"I didn't really think that I had anything to fear," Gawain said, smiling in a disarming manner. "Not from a pretty lass like you."

Aerin's face turned an even darker red as she stood there, tongue-tied and mortified. For a moment, she couldn't think of how to react. "Thank you," she mumbled uncertainly. Blessedly, words sprang into her head - her only defense. "By the way, your Gaelic pronunciation is terrible."

"Really?" Gawain countered, though he was not surprised at this newest fact. "Well," he continued at the girl's affirmative nod. "It's not like I've had anyone to teach me. Maybe you could."

"An té a bhfuil níos mó ná sé adh fhoghlaimíonn cainteanna a. He who is silent learns more than he who talks," Aerin quoted.

"Tristan would like that one," Gawain grumbled.

"Tristan? The Scout?" She asked curiously. "I think I saw him once, years ago. In the woods."

"That would be an appropriate place to see him. I'll ask him about you."

"I don't think he would have noticed me," Aerin protested.

Gawain chuckled. "Tristan notices everything. Believe me. If you got a look at him, he most certainly knew you were there."

Aerin broke her gaze away from the humor-filled eyes of the knight. "I should go to find my brother, and my father," she said, turning.

"Not without protection, you won't. Can't let a lass like you go off alone," Gawain said, hefting his ax and puffing out his chest just a bit. She waited for him to catch up, and then started walking, but he stopped and picked up her dirk, holding it out to her as he shook off the dust. "Here, don't forget this. It's quite a fine blade, if I do say so myself."

She glared at the weapon, making no move to take it from his hand. "I don't deserve it, nor do I want it. I was dishonorable. Leave it there for someone worthy to find."

Taken aback, Gawain shook his head. "You were dishonorable for saving my life?"

She hesitated, but said, "Keep it yourself, if you won't cast it away."

"The blade is yours, Aerin. We gave him -" Gawain jerked his head at the body of the dead Saxon - "Mercy once. He betrayed our trust. You don't hand out mercy more than that if you want to live."

The girl considered his words, and finally took the blade, sheathing it. They began to walk to the south of the village, which was crowded with cheering Camelot soldiers, grinning Woads, and stunned villagers. As Bors had said, women and children had returned, some reuniting with their loved ones, while others looked for bodies.

Men, women, and children alike crowded around King Arthur, gazing up in awe at the famous man. He smiled benevolently at them all, talking as if he were one of them. For once, Gawain observed, Arthur's horse was calm and relatively still, allowing some child to pat its face.

A boy of about twelve ran into the village, breathing hard, drawing a nervous attention to him. "The fields are burning! There's no saving them!"

A collective gasp came from the villagers.

"What will we do?"

"We won't survive the winter without food."

"Evil Saxons!"

"We'll starve!"

Arthur called for silence, and beckoned to the boy, who strode up to him, wide-eyed.

"Yes, sir?"

"You say that every field has been destroyed?" Arthur asked calmly.

The boy nodded. "All but three to the south."

The King sat back in his saddle and considered. Finally, he said, "All who wish it are welcome to come to Camelot with us. We can provide lodgings for you."

Nervous talking broke out once again. At last, an aging man stepped forward and bowed to Arthur. "My King, I am called Rhisiart, and I am a village elder. I thank you first for your timely defense of our village, second for your kind offer. Myself, and all my descendents, are at your service. For my part, I suggest that the women and children go with you to Camelot, while the men stay here over the winter, to ready everything for their return in spring. If we could impose on your hospitality for that time, we would be forever grateful."

Arthur nodded. "This seems an agreeable plan."

Aerin turned to Gawain, wide-eyed. "Camelot can fit thirty more people? Just how big is the city?"

Gawain gave her an understanding nod. "Camelot could probably house a hundred more people without any sort of strain. It's a huge city - but you'll see it for yourself."

Aerin shook her head. "Not me. There's no way my father and brother will be able to split all my chores between themselves."

"You mean you don't intend to come?" Gawain was incredulous.

"No." At that moment, a voice shouted, "Aerin!" and a form rushed at her so fast that Gawain tightened his grip on his ax in surprise. A lad - a young man, really - of dark hair and hazel eyes was embracing Aerin. _Her brother? But he looks nothing like her, _Gawain mused.

Aerin at last broke away from him and turned to the knight. "Sir Gawain, this is my brother, Dafydd. Dafydd, Sir Gawain saved my life."

Dafydd looked as if he was doing his best not to stare open-mouthed at the knight. At Aerin's second statement, he hastily looked her over in case she had been injured, and then turned back to Gawain. "Sir, I owe you everything. My sister is the dearest thing in the world to me." To Aerin, he said with a frown, "I knew I shouldn't have allowed you to stay! Imagine if Sir Gawain hadn't been there!"

"Then I'd be dead," Aerin admitted frankly.

"And if she hadn't been there, I probably would be dead as well." Gawain countered. "She saved my life once with a warning and once with her own blade."

"Really?"

Aerin looked about to protest, but was cut off by the arrival of a man who, to Gawain's eye, looked exactly like an older version of Dafydd. "Aerinwen, my daughter!" He exclaimed upon seeing her, and hugged her in much the same manner Dafydd had. "I just went to check on the cottage - it's barely been touched, thank the Lord." A moment later, his gaze landed upon Gawain.

"Aerin, Dafydd, who's this?"

The knight answered for himself this time. "I'm Gawain, of the Round Table, formerly of Sarmatia."

"One of the King's knights, then?" At an affirmative nod from Gawain, he held out his hand. "I'm Gethin, the father of those two. Permit me for saying so, but… I was surprised at how… young… you seem to have already lived a life of fighting. You don't look much older than my own children."

"Father!" Both Aerin and Dafydd burst out, horrified.

Gawain kept his smile. "Aye, Master Gethin, I'm younger than some others, but not the youngest. I've been fighting here since I was ten." He turned back to the woman, and gave a slight bow. "It seems you're safe with your family now, miss."

"I am, thank you, Sir," she replied with equal gravity. Satisfied, Gawain turned away, to help an aging refugee tie her small basket of belongings to her pony's saddle.

It was another gratingly slow hour before the women and children were finally ready to go. Miraculously - if Gawain had believed in miracles, that is – very few of the Camelot soldiers had sustained fatal wounds. As he and his comrades tried to offer help where they could, Gawain noticed the healer girl bustling about, administering cures. _Useful to be a healer. Unless you get injured yourself. _She had brushed off his own offer of aid brusquely, and so he had retreated. He'd only been acting the part of a gentleman. After all, he had his reputation to think of.

Bors and Arthur were directing a fire-extinguishing operation in the central square, which was the most damaged part of the village. Galahad had attempted to aid them, but found that the thick, cloying smoke made him feel sick. Once realizing that, he excused himself and made his way toward the hard-faced women and children, who had clustered on the road that led south. As he ordered them about, greatly bolstering his self-esteem, for they obeyed him without question, he watched Gawain watch the lass that had set his own fingers. Galahad supposed that the girl was nice-looking, but nothing next to the buxom wenches that the knights were used to back home. He wondered briefly why Gawain couldn't tear his eyes away from her, and resolved to ask his big brother when they were next alone.

Noon found the women and children of the village slowly mounting their ponies, hugging friends and family goodbye. The Camelot division was forming a loose rearguard, and a few Woad scouts had already ridden ahead. Arthur rode up to Bors and Gawain as they readied their own horses. "Bors, when we start off, I want to you manage the right flank of the group - stay in the center, make sure no one wants for help or wanders off course. Gawain, you do the same at the left flank, and keep an eye on Galahad."

Arthur had long ago stopped trying to separate the youngest pair of knights; he had found that things just worked out better when the "miscreants" as they were affectionately termed, were together. No one else but Gawain could stand Galahad's temper or whining, after all.

Gawain and Bors nodded and moved their own horses into position as Arthur had requested. From the corner of his eye, Gawain saw a fine gray horse - some sort of Arabian, from the looks of it - prancing around about twenty yards away, obviously nervous at all the commotion. He was about to call Galahad over and approach the mare when, to his surprise, Aerin stepped up and calmed her with a gentle touch. _This is getting ridiculous. Everywhere I look, I see her. _For some reason, though, he didn't look away, his gaze shifting from the beautiful horse to the slim girl. A moment later, her blue eyes caught his own, and he gave her his most amicable grin. She narrowed her eyes at him warningly, but simultaneously blushed and looked away quickly.

"She doesn't seem to have quite taken to you," Galahad's voice observed. The younger knight had moved his horse next to Gawain's.

"Aye, but she's blushing," Gawain replied unconcernedly.

"That means that she doesn't fancy your attention."

Gawain scoffed. "They all blush and scorn you before you get them to your room. You need to get better at reading women, little brother."

Galahad turned red from head to toe at his best friend's appraisal. "Just because I haven't been with nearly every barmaid doesn't mean anything," he mumbled.

The tawny-haired knight turned back to Aerin at the sound of raised, angry voices.

Gethin, her father, was looking at her, patiently but wearily shaking his head as Dafydd yelled, "You _half-wit!_ You're a girl! Do you think you'd survive even two bloody months without proper food?"

"How _dare _you insult me like that, you - you _child_? Who's going to take care of all the livestock if I go? And what if you get sick? Robert is _leaving_, Dafydd. I won't leave my friends without a healer."

"Your _friends, _hmm? The ones that don't speak to you? Or the ones that openly insult you?"

"Poorly worded on my part," Aerin shot back, still holding on to Síoda's reins with one hand. "But it is my duty to stay and use what skill I have for the benefit of others-"

Finally, Gethin cut her off, putting a calloused hand on her shoulder. "And it is my duty as a father to protect my daughter." She stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes as he continued. "I order you to go, and tend to the other half of our village. They will need you during the winter more than we will."

"Please, Father, if I must beg on my knees I will," she pleaded, but he only shook his head.

"Dafydd has gathered your things."

The dark-haired lad wordlessly handed a full saddlebag to his sister. She glared at them both for an entire half-minute before reaching out and taking the proffered supplies. Galahad and Gawain exchanged glances. Even from their great distance, they could almost feel the tension in the atmosphere generated by the familial squabble. Gawain found himself half-expecting sparks to start flying.

"A real spitfire."

"Guess so," Gawain replied. "I guess so."

Their laughter accompanied the more somber sounds of the departing villagers, a merry fanfare to those whose very lives had been shaken.

…

The group had, at last, reached the thick of the forest on the road. Luckily for the Camelot soldiers, the village hadn't had any carriages or carts suitable for riding in. Gawain had memories of another time when he and his fellows had escorted refugees in carriages - memories that were best left, well, unremembered.

After fifteen years of fighting, Gawain, like all the others, had developed tactics for suppressing bad experiences. Accordingly, he put those tactics to good use and forced the memories of that ill-fated rescue mission away, deep into the vaults of his mind. Though, he thought with a mental wince, there was nothing any of them could do about dreams. No matter what he did, Gawain found that nightmares plagued him after every battle, relentlessly replaying the faces of all the people he'd killed, the vicious ways that he'd killed them. First "they" had been savage Gauls in Germania, as he had been dragged halfway across the world to serve in Britain, when he'd been barely ten. Then it had been the Woads, and then the Angles, and now the Saxons and the Gaels.

His thoughts drifted to the Woad who even now probably sat in the manor of Camelot, gossiping or sewing or doing whatever else it was Woad women did. Gawain didn't have any liking for that particular savage. Not simply because she was a Woad - actually, Gawain got along quite well with most of the Woads and even had a number of friends among them. No, but because there was just something, well, off about her.

At first, he'd been able to understand her at least partially. She wanted the best for her people, as Gawain wanted the best for his brothers-in-arms. Her every thought, every breath, every word, was freedom and longing for it, and Gawain could understand that, for he had been the same during all his years of slavery to the Empire.

After the Battle of Badon Hill, however, the easy-going knight had been hard-pressed to make himself believe that Lancelot's near-fatal injuries were not _her_ fault. Despite her firm stance that she could take care of herself, there hadn't been a single situation where she hadn't needed help of some sort. She had needed to be rescued from Marius's dungeon - by Arthur, of course; then, she'd needed not their faithful medic but Arthur himself to reset her fingers. And at Badon Hill, she had been completely unable to hold her own. Lancelot had saved her simply because he knew how much she meant to Arthur. Gawain knew that it was stupid, stubborn, to think that way, but for some reason he couldn't get past the fact that _she _had somehow ensnared the heart and soul of their commanding officer - their king.

They were complete opposites, no matter what she told him about being kindred spirits. A more moral being than Arthur could not be found, while the same could certainly not be said for the resident Queen, for reasons Gawain refused to recall at the moment. Of course they were all courteous and knightly to her, but Gawain could tell that they all suspected, deep in their minds, that Guinevere was simply not good enough for Arthur.

"What are you thinking about?"

Gawain shook his head at Galahad, knowing that if he disclosed his thoughts, Galahad would begin to voice his own on the subject - out loud, regardless of who was listening. At that point, Gawain was in no mood to have to tackle his comrade just to shut him up. He gave an easy smile. "Nothing for you to trouble your head over."

Anyone else saying the same thing would have had the wonderful experience of riding next to a sulking, whining Galahad for the remainder of the journey. Fortunately, Gawain possessed the elusive "Galahad Control" talent that no one else did. The curly-haired knight shrugged in acceptance and maintained a steady pace, knowing that his fellow would eventually confide whatever he had on his mind.

"That's a fine horse she has," Galahad commented. "Iberian Arabian, I think."

Gawain twisted around, his eyes falling upon Aerin, who was near the back of the group and towards the edge, riding sidesaddle on the gray mare he'd seen earlier. "Aye, maybe if you ask her, she'll let you ride it once we get home."

The younger knight nodded blankly, seemingly transfixed by the healer's horse. "I think I will." He turned his own stallion around and urged him to a fast trot, then turned back around once he was side-by-side with the girl.

"She's beautiful."

Aerin jumped as she heard the statement, habitually swinging a leg over Síoda to keep her balance. When she saw that the speaker was the knight whose fingers she'd splinted, she blushed in embarrassment and muttered an apology about being improper.

"No, no," came back the reply. "Please, don't ride sidesaddle. It makes you look like you'll fall off."

"Oh." She was grateful for that, at least, much preferring to ride the way everyone else did. She shook her head, recalling what the knight had originally said. "You're right; she is a beauty and she knows it."

Galahad regarded the gray mare further. "None of the other villagers have horses like that."

The girl set her head proudly and leaned forward to stroke her horse's neck. "No," she agreed. "Síoda is not from the normal pony stock. I got her from a certain trader. A friend of mine, who knows of my affinity for exotic creatures."

"Síoda…" another familiar voice mused. "That means 'smooth' in Gaelic, doesn't it?"

"Close. Means 'silk,' Sir Gawain."

Galahad let out a laugh. "Ah, don't bother callin' him 'Sir.' Nobody else does. He's just an … overgrown lion cub."

"Really?" Aerin asked, raising an eyebrow as Galahad was rewarded by a punch to his shoulder. "Then what kind of beast does that make you, I wonder?" She knew she was being forward, but truly, she couldn't resist the bait to her wit.

Gawain was about to reply when Galahad returned the punch. The elder of them only laughed and resumed speaking. "Each of us knights is compared to some sort of animal. Take Tristan, for example. He likes to think that he's a hawk, but really he's more akin to a starving wolf - starving for blood, that is. As you just heard -" This he said with some pride, "I get to be the lion. Lancelot - well, no one really knows what Lancelot is. Or cares. And Arthur's always being compared to a dragon - gods only know why. Bors is the badger. Galahad is just an unidentified Whelp." He said the last sentence with a good-natured, if not gentle, cuff to the back of the younger knight's head, earning an annoyed, "Hey!"

"I see," she murmured, mentally contemplating the grandeur of it all.

"Wait 'til you get to Camelot; then you'll really see."

"Sir Lancelot," she said, rolling the famed name on her tongue. "Why does no one care about _him_? Isn't he, well, the King's best friend?"

Galahad raised an eyebrow. "Aye, he is. But he's also rather notorious."

Aerin frowned. "For what?"

Gawain began to chuckle, and Galahad answered, "For always having his hands under ladies' skirts!"

If the healer's apprentice had been mortified when Gawain had called her pretty, now she was struck completely speechless, and a hand flew to her mouth. _How obscene! _

Gawain elbowed his comrade. "Hush up, will you?"

A single thought presented itself in the minds of the knights as well as in the mind of the healer. _Well, _this_ is awkward. _They rode in silence for a while, none knowing what to say. Finally, Gawain drew a breath.

"So," he began cautiously. "Where'd you learn to handle that blade?"

Aerin eyed him warily. "My mother."

"And where did she learn?" Galahad asked.

She was silent for a long time, biting her lip as if debating whether or not to answer. At last, she sighed and said simply, "She was Fianna."

…

Both knights stared at her, open-mouthed. _Fianna? Well, that explains the Gaelic. _Galahad turned to look at Gawain, shock written all over his face, clearly not taking this latest tidbit as well as the elder knight had. Though he remained silent, his eyes said everything. _Fianna? Those damned bastards that killed Owain and Ector and Urien? _

Hesitantly, Gawain asked, "Fianna? From Hibernia?"

"From Eirè," she corrected immediately. "Eirè, not Hibernia. Rome never touched it; they had no right to name it." She paused, but after a while remembered the first question. "Yes, Fianna, the warrior tribe of the High King. Why do you look so surprised?"

"Well, it's just …" Galahad trailed off as he appraised her once more, suspicion aflame in his eyes.

"How did you come to be here, then? I though you said you weren't a Scot." Gawain said, backing his comrade.

She sighed, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not. I'm a Briton." They stared at her, disbelieving, until finally she began speaking again. They had asked for the full story, and heavens, they were going to get it. "Nigh on five and twenty years ago, my father, who is as Briton as Briton gets, went to Eirè just to see it – he was an adventurer in his younger days. There, he came under the service of the High King, MacFionn, and met my mother. They married, and my brother and I were born. To make a long story short, the High King died and the land was thrown into civil war. My father convinced my mother to come here, to his homeland. I was nine when we came here, and have been a loyal subject to King Arthur since he was crowned." There was more than a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

Once again, the knights shared a glance. _Interesting. Very interesting. _For his part, Gawain knew he would never cease to marvel at how many people of far distant lands called Britain their home. As Arthur would say, their Island was the home of all the free.

"Is your curiosity quite satisfied?" Aerin asked. At their nods, she continued, "Good. Now, if you'll just leave me to my thoughts, I'd appreciate it."

"Apologies, but that's not possible," Gawain said with a grin. "Galahad, I think what our friend really means is that she wishes for us to stay, and regale her with stories."

Galahad chuckled. "I think you're right, brother."

Aerin sighed, resigning herself to her fate, though her mind was fixed on something else. _Friend. He called me friend. _She softened towards them; all of a sudden, it didn't matter that they had pried out her secret, or that they talked incessantly. _Friend. _She felt joy well up within her, such as she had seldom felt before. How was it possible that she had known these lads for less than a day, and yet - _Friend. _

**How about a review to let me know what you think? **

**Translation: **

**Buíochas a ghabháil … leat as a shábháil mo shaol.: Thank you for saving my life.**

**Pronunciation:**

**S****íoda: SHEE-dah**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story. **

**Thanks once again to homeric and vicklyd for the reviews; they are so, so appreciated and helpful. Also thanks to anyone else who favorited or subscribed to this or to my other story, Perilous. **

**(And wow, this story has gotten 136 visitors and 6 reviews – gosh you people are tough, lol!) **

**This next chapter is kind of a filler, but it's got my attempt at witty conversation. Hope you enjoy! **

Ever Homeward 

"And Lancelot took her to his room!"

Aerin blushed crimson as Galahad finished his part of the story. He and Gawain had told about a dozen tales, and already, the girl felt as if she knew each of the knights personally. Hearing second-hand legends about their glory was one thing; hearing humorous narrations about their individual follies and misadventures was another. The lewdness bothered her, but her newfound friends were so incredibly casual about it that she found herself giggling along, though there was nothing she could do about her blushing. This particular anecdote left her open-mouthed, however. "A Roman lady of noble blood? And he wasn't hanged for it?"

The two knights laughed in unison. "Nah, Arthur wouldn't let his precious Lancelot get into any real trouble," Gawain answered. "He gave him some extra duties and a generic lecture and that was it - no one ever said anything else."

The girl arched an eyebrow. "A 'generic lecture', hmm?"

"The same as we all get when Romans and/or women are involved," Galahad said.

"Then I'm right in supposing that you two have each been subject to 'generic lectures'?"

Gawain smiled wryly. "Plenty - more than I could count."

Aerin narrowed her eyes. "That's not necessarily very many, seeing as you can barely get to three."

"Careful, little spitfire," the knight replied, mirth glinting in his eyes. "Don't want to rouse the lion, do you?"

"I think I can manage a sharp-toothed cub," she shot back, though all three of them wore amused smiles. "So," she continued in a musing tone, her confidence building with each passing moment. "I'm a spitfire now, am I?"

"Aye, you are - an exceptionally pretty one at that."

_Again with this? _She couldn't say that it wasn't… flattering to be called nice-looking, but it was also awkward and … she never finished the thought, for Galahad was, in a roundabout manner, rushing to her defense.

"Oh, please, Gawain. She doesn't want to hear that from you, you numbskull!" Aerin was about to give him a grateful look, but stopped immediately as he went on. "Obviously she wants to hear it from me!" He turned to her, a roguish grin on his face. "Did I mention that your wish is my command, darling?"

This was worse than being called pretty. Aerin felt her eyes grow wide and her blush return, and she stared fixedly at the ground. "Call me 'darling' once more, _tadpole,_ and I won't be so nice the next time you break your fingers."

Gawain's raucous laughter drew the glances of a few refugees as the knight sent yet another cuff upside his comrade's head. From the other side of the column, the voice of Bors called back, "Shut it, Gawain, or tell us what's so bloody funny."

The tawny-haired knight was about to relay the entire incident, but Arthur caught his attention from his position at the front of the column and gave him a pleading look, silently begging him not to disturb the villagers any further. Gawain shrugged at his commander compliantly and turned back to the conversation.

"Admit it, though," Galahad was pressing. "I'm more handsome than _this_ scruffy excuse for a knight."

Aerin sat up straighter, clearly flabbergasted by the question. Finally, she thought of something appropriately witty that she hoped would drive the curly-haired man into something resembling respectful submission, and a dry smile accompanied her comment. "At least he passes for a knight. _You_ could just as easily be a painted little princess."

Stunned silence fell. Gawain took one look at his comrade's face and motioned discreetly for Aerin to move her horse a few more steps from Galahad as he did the same. Galahad would never – no, seldom was a better word – _intentionally _hurt anyone off the battlefield, but when he had a tantrum … things got, well, out of hand.

"_Painted_?" The younger knight repeated in what could only be described as a horrified voice.

She seemed the slightest bit worried now, but she staunchly nodded. "Aye, painted."

"That, my dear Lady Spitfire, is an affront to my honor as a knight," Galahad said, though he was grinning, and his statement was plainly meant mockingly.

So Gawain's concern had been unwarranted; Galahad had a hold on his prideful temper. That was a relief, to say the very least.

"What is the King going to do with all of us?" Aerin asked after a brief silence, jesting forgotten as she finally gave some thought to her future. "I mean, we certainly can't encroach on his hospitality for nearly eight months."

Both knights shrugged. Rescuing villagers throughout the countryside and bringing them back to Camelot had become routine for them, really.

"I'm sure everyone will find some form of work," Gawain said.

Galahad nodded. "There's plenty of jobs back there, even for women."

"I think Arthur will put Vanora in charge, again. She's good at management."

Aerin looked confused. "Bors's lover? The one with eleven children?"

"Aye," Galahad replied.

"Don't you think she has enough on her hands?"

The knights shared a glance, considering, and then shook their heads. "Nah."

Vanora had been placed in control of refugee groups far larger than this newest one, by Arthur himself, who seemed to have an eye for talent not only among soldiers but common people as well. She was, admittedly, quite skilled at organization, and the knights had observed that she was also very adept at acclimating refugees to their new lives in Camelot.

…

It was well after nightfall that the group reached the city of Camelot. Though they could barely see it, gasps went up as the villagers took in the high walls, all of stone, the towering buildings, the wide streets, which even at this late hour were busy with laborers, shopkeepers, and merchants returning to their homes. The soldiers and refugees caught stares and cheers as they easily parted the traffic, heading on a course for the center of the city.

As they rounded a bend, a large hill came into view, untouched except for the sprawling manor house that lay perched atop it.

"See that?" Galahad asked Aerin, pointing. "That's where we live."

He didn't receive an answer, for her eyes were as wide as moons as she looked upon the sight. At last, in a shocked voice, she murmured, "How many men did it take to build such a thing?"

"Hundreds," the knight replied nonchalantly, amused at the degree of awe to which the city inspired her.

"Aye," Gawain added. "They started after Arthur's coronation, and only just finished it a couple of weeks ago."

They led their horses up the winding path to the hilltop along with the others, stopping first in the stables that adjoined the manor. Never had Aerin been in a place with such lofty ceilings. She didn't know where to look first. Horses, more similar to her Síoda than to the village ponies, peeked out at her from inside spacious stalls. The scents of hay, wood, leather, and clean horses mixed together, forming something very pleasantly sweet.

"Here, we can show you where to put your mare," Galahad said, jolting her from her trance-like state. He and Gawain had dismounted, each leading their own horses by the reins.

"Unless you need help getting down, Lady Spitfire," Gawain said, offering his hand.

She fixed him with her best glare, the one she used on Dafydd when he "forgot" to wash the dishes or make his bed. She couldn't say she enjoyed the nickname very much, but heavens, they were making it awfully hard to be demure. "The day I need help with my own horse is the day I turn in my grave, Sir Knight." She slid off the mare with practiced ease, ignoring the hand, just to prove her point.

"Have it your way, then," Gawain replied, taking a few steps back as if hurt.

Afraid that she'd offended him – perhaps he'd only been acting with court manners, a subject she was quite ignorant of – she softened her glare and met his eyes. "Sir? I meant no harm, truly …"

He cut her off, a grin spreading across his face. "'Course you didn't. Lady Spitfire."

She couldn't resist a smile. "Oh, you – you rascal!"

She walked with them as they moved away from the crowd of villagers, who had all lined up at the stable entrance with their ponies at the command of a man who introduced himself as Jols, the keeper of the stables.

The knights' horses followed them as they led them into adjacent stalls along one wall. Galahad gestured to an empty stall across the aisle. "You can put her there."

Aerin complied, and, to her delight, found hooks on which to hand Síoda's bridle, saddle, and other tack. She also found a curry comb, which she put to good use, brushing her mare gently. She saw that the two knights were tending to their horses in much the same manner. Once she had finished with Síoda, she slipped her a slice of dried apple and stepped out of the stall, where Galahad and Gawain were waiting.

"You take care of your own horses? I would have thought that your excessive self-admiration would have prevented you from it."

"A knight isn't a knight for long if his horse isn't in perfect condition," Gawain countered.

"We have reason for self-admiration, anyway," Galahad added. "At least _I _do."

"Come on, we can get you to Vanora before the rest show up and crowd everything. Besides, this way you'll have more time to marvel."

"Marvel?"

"Aye, like a country bumpkin."

Their had trouble containing their laughter as they exited the stables, passing the column of villagers. Aerin caught some odd glances, as if her fellows did not know what to make of her. She supposed she was being … odd. Back home, she was shy, polite, silent, but here she was, exchanging pleasant banter with two of the King's own knights.

Galahad's words proved true. Aerin was stricken utterly speechless when she entered the manor house. High ceilings, with dark wooden beams that must have come from some of the forest's oldest trees, added to the splendor of the place. In the dining hall, which also boasted two large stone fireplaces, at least a hundred small wooden tables were set for the next morning's breakfast. However, the hall's greatest feature - in Aerin's opinion - was the famed Round Table, which looked like it must sit forty knights.

For the moment, the dining hall was quiet, save for a few servants, who walked this way and that, obviously trying to prepare for the extra crowd and, from their frowns, not enjoying a moment of it.

Bors had joined them, wondering aloud where his high-spirited lover was. As if summoned, a wide door in the far wall burst open, admitting a red-headed woman, shaking a wooden spoon and yelling fit to bring down the sky.

"Hurry up and stir yourselves, you lazy fools! Arthur's given us plenty of work to do, and by the heavens, we're going to get it done!"

The servants, men and women alike, immediately began rushing about, scrambling to avoid the spoon-wielding woman and get on with their tasks. She put her hands on her hips, momentarily satisfied as she cast a critical eye about the room. Her gaze fell on Bors next, and she strode over purposefully.

"Where _have _you _been_?" She shouted, knocking him over the head with her spoon. Aerin couldn't help wincing at the resulting _crack, _but the woman continued as if nothing had happened. "We were waiting for you – Arthur came in to see his Guinevere 'alf an hour ago!"

Bors, like his lover, acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and bent down to kiss her in such a manner that had Aerin blushing and staring fixedly at the ground. Gawain, seeing her discomfort, began chuckling. "Think nothing of them," he said. "They're always like that."

She looked at him, disbelieving, and turned to Galahad, who looked rather unsettled himself. Aerin's first impression of the woman was that she was exceptionally beautiful, not in the exotic way that some Roman ladies were, but in the traditional Briton fashion. The woman's radiant face and shining eyes belayed a happiness and spiritedness about her nature.

"Oh – who's this?" The woman had pulled away from Bors and was regarding the healer, noticing her for the first time.

Shyness filled her and she took a deep breath before answering. "I'm Aerin. I'm from the village that the King went to help."

"Ah, of course," the other woman replied knowingly. "I'm Vanora; 'tis nice to meet you. You'll like it here, I'm sure."

"Thank you, I like it here already."

"These miscreants have been good to you, I hope?"

Aerin smiled. "Oh, they've been saintly."

Vanora eyed the younger knights, as if she knew exactly what they had been up to. "I'm sure." She paused, considering. "Come, supper was served hours ago, but if the four of you sit down somewhere, I'll get you something to eat before the crowd gets here."

The knights looked grateful, as Aerin was sure she herself did. She hadn't realized how hungry she was, and followed the knights as they shuffled off to pick a corner table, muttering, "Thanks, Van."

A few moments later, Vanora had brought out plates of seasoned, steaming venison, as well as ale for the knights and water for Aerin. Before attacking their meal, the men showered Bors's lover with shameless flattery, thanking her for the delicious spread. And truly, Aerin thought, it was delicious. Venison was a rare treat back at home, rarer, even, than pork. After a few slow bites, she was tearing into the meal as ravenously as the knights.

They didn't speak much as they ate, and the moment she was done, Vanora whisked Aerin up the grand spiral stairs. "I think I'll put most of your villagers in the East Wing, on the second floor. It's mostly empty," Vanora mused aloud.

_East Wing? Second Floor? _The words were nearly lost on the healer as she tried to comprehend just how large the manor was. She had seen it from the outside, sure, but being inside was a different matter altogether. She couldn't help but stare at the gold torch-holders mounted on the walls every five feet, or at the sheer number of doors that must lead to individual rooms.

"Have you any family with you?"

Aerin shook her head. "No."

"And would you like to be quartered alone, or perhaps with some friends?"

"Alone, if you please." Aerin couldn't imagine sharing a living space for months on end with any of the women her age, and she didn't want to be a burden on Llian's family. She hoped Vanora would be able to find her a nice quiet chamber. To her pleasure, the other woman began to nod. "Very well, I think I know just the place for you. That is, if you don't mind being a little removed from everyone."

"Not at all."

The redhead led her up another flight of stairs and down a hallway as long as the one below it. Right when they reached the end of the passageway, Vanora stopped and swung open a small, nondescript door, so plain among all the luxurious trappings of the manor that Aerin hadn't even noticed it. "Here you go, dear, take a look."

Aerin complied, ducking as she stepped in. She found herself in a quaint little area scarcely bigger than her room at home. A tiny bed was located on the left, beneath the sloping eaves of the ceiling, with a tiny fireplace at its foot. A window that seemed overlarge for such a small room allowed the bright light of the full moon to stream in. An even smaller door than the first presumably led to a washroom.

"What do you think? If it doesn't suit you, I can probably find a nicer room at the inn-"

Aerin spun around to face the other woman. "Oh, no, it's perfect for me, Vanora! Thank you."

The redhead crossed her arms and gazed about critically. "The bed is a bit too small for male company – sorry about that."

Aerin's cheeks turned beet red, as if she had not blushed enough already, and she said quickly, "That _won't_ be a problem."

Vanora smiled. "I'll leave you be, then. For breakfast, come downstairs anytime – it's much less formal than supper."

"Thank you again, Vanora. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, dear." Within moments, Vanora was gone, back downstairs to tend to the other refugees, and closing the door behind her. Aerin sighed, and slipped her haversack off, placing it atop a wooden chest. She would unpack later.

She closed her eyes, and collapsed on the little bed with its patchwork quilt. Gratefulness filled her and she thanked Ffraid for all the kind people she had met. First she thought of Vanora, who had called her "dear," and gone out of her way to make her comfortable, and second she thought of Galahad, Gawain, and Bors, who had shown her such unexpected kindness. They had made her laugh, given her an opportunity to use her wit, even though they had plainly seen that none of the other villagers paid her any mind.

She did not stay sprawled out on the bed for long, though she would have liked to. She forced herself up and into the washroom, where she was delighted to find running water, in the Roman style. She treated herself to a relaxing, if chilly, bath, washing the grime of travel away. She even had time to wash her hair, which had been sadly neglected for nearly three days.

When she had finished, wrapping herself in a dry cloth, teeth chattering from the cold water, she stepped back into the bedchamber and quickly dug through her bag, pulling a cotton shift over her head. She also found her comb, which she clutched up.

Aerin sat down in the single rocking chair and began the tedious task of untangling her fine-stranded hair, jealous of the thick-haired Roman girls she had seen a few times. She bet herself that no Roman woman ever had to struggle to make herself look presentable as she was doing now. By the time she finished, it was very late, and clouds had rolled in, covering the moon. Before she fell asleep, she made sure to ask Ffraid to first protect her family while she was away, and to second protect her in this strange new world.

**Please tell me what you think with a review! I'm always open to suggestions and really want to hear your ideas about where you want the plot to go! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story. **

**This chapter, like the last, doesn't contain much action, and it was supposed to, but it was running a bit long so I've decided to cram all the action into the next installment. Sorry :( **

**I have received all your reviews and alerts ecstatically – keep them coming and don't hesitate to offer suggestions about where the plot should go or constructive criticism! **

**To my anonymous reviewer: I'm glad you like the story so far and hope that you're pleased with this next chapter! **

**A big thank-you to lewilder, homeric, and vicklyd as always. You guys are amazing and I don't know what I'd do without you! :) **

**It's been a while since I posted last, but I was having some problems writing this chapter. Luckily, my creative muse decided to favor me, so here is Chapter 6. Enjoy! **

Ever Homeward 

_She was drowning. She couldn't breathe, for it was all around her – blood. Red as the roses that grew wild in the woods, sticky as molasses … Men, who were just as covered in the substance as she, stared blankly at her. She recognized them: there was Joseph the miller, who'd been sliced apart by a Saxon blade – he had three boys, all under the age of six. Over there was a Rhostyllen man; she didn't know his name but she knew his face well enough, for she had looked upon it and begged him to awaken. He had not. And there, there was a Saxon, unshaven and raggedy, with blood pouring from the wound she'd made in his chest. There were others, as well, all approaching her steadily, unstoppable as the tide of blood which flowed about her, trying to smother her and drag her down into the depths. _

_They moaned, some incoherently, others in voices as clear as mountain brooks. "You let us die." _

"_My wife's a widow now. You left me on the hillside …" _

"_Who'll take care of my girls?" _

"_Traitor, you should have died with us." _

_One of the Saxons stepped forward, the one she'd killed mercilessly from behind. "You're a healer. You're not supposed to kill." _

_And always, always, that same statement echoed throughout, weaving it's way into accusations and pounding into her head. "You let us die." _

A high scream woke her – her eyes flew open and it took her a moment to realize that she was in Camelot, in her own little chamber, and that she had been the one screaming. Her breathing came fast as raindrops in a storm.

"A dream," she said aloud, trying to convince herself. "Only a dream."

Even so, she raced to the washroom and promptly threw up, as if she were seasick. It was some time before she got a hold of herself and rose unsteadily, hands cramped and aching from clutching her sides as if she would break apart.

_Calm down, _she thought at herself. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Calm. _

Soon enough, reality overtook her, and she hurriedly cleaned up. What kind of healer was she, that she couldn't stomach a battle?

By the time she was changed and ready for the day, she had noticed that it was still very early, before sunrise, in fact. Now what was she supposed to do? Vanora had said to go down to the hall for breakfast anytime she wished, but she certainly couldn't think of eating at this hour, not after what had happened. Still, she knew she had to do something, anything, to get her mind off the dream. Perhaps she could pay a visit to the kitchens and see if her help was needed in any way – there was bound to be something she might do, after the extra burden the villagers had added. Yes, that was exactly what she'd do.

It took longer than expected to find her way among the maze of passageways and staircases, but she managed to reach the dining hall without mishap. The kitchens, she assumed, were behind the hall – she'd seen Vanora and some servants use the oaken door in the far wall. She met no one; she guessed that everyone must be still be asleep after the excitement of the previous night.

To Aerin's surprise, the kitchens were nearly as empty as the rest of the manor. A cook stood next to a large central hearth, a concentrated frown on his face as he fussed over a pot of stew. Three or four scullery maids scrubbed at pots and pans, chattering quietly among themselves. Aerin breathed a sigh of relief as she spotted Vanora, tending to a roasting chicken.

"Ah, good mornin', lass!" The redhead greeted upon seeing her. "You're up awfully early."

Aerin nodded in reply. "Good morning, Vanora. I … I was wondering if I could help here somehow."

"Never let it be said that I turned down an offer like that!" The other woman exclaimed approvingly. "Over there on the table is a bowl of vegetables that need mincing."

The younger woman obeyed compliantly as Vanora began relating the troubles she'd had with her children the previous day. The redhead liked to talk about her children, that much was plain, and she did for some time, not giving Aerin a chance to get a word in edgewise. The healer found that she didn't mind at all.

"My boy Gilly incited all his siblings to stay up late, instead of going to bed like I told them... One, the eldest – her real name is Valya – was in tears by the time I got upstairs, because she couldn't get any of the smaller ones to listen to her."

"Valya?" Aerin asked, never having heard such a name.

"Aye, it's Sarmatian. Bors chose it – I think after one of his sisters who died before he was taken. His tribe was almost completely wiped out by the time the Romans came for him. Lass? You're awfully pale; are you feeling all right?"

Aerin gripped the edge of the table, looking as if she'd been kicked. She didn't have a chance to say anything before Vanora murmured, "Ah, o' course, I should have known. Was it a nightmare?" At the girl's nod she continued. "Battle often does that."

"I – I'm rather ashamed," Aerin admitted quietly. "I've been trained as a healer all my life."

"But you'd never been in battle before! Here, it's time you got some food in you – everyone will be in the dining hall by now."

True enough, the kitchen had filled up with energetic workers who bustled about, readying morning meals and carrying them out to the hall, from where the individual voices of a large crowd created a dull roar. "But I'm not done here," Aerin protested. "I can't stop now. And – if I stop working for even a moment, I'm bound to remember …"

"Nonsense!" Vanora interrupted, glancing at the other woman's handiwork. "Face it, you're no cook. I promise, after breakfast I'll see if the old crones up in the infirmary will take you on. That'll give you something to take your mind off whatever bad dreams you had, dear."

Aerin nodded wryly. She had prepared her family's meals for years, but their meager supplies certainly hadn't been enough to give her any skills a true cook would envy. Further, her mind jumped at the hinted chance at a position in the manor infirmary. Vanora was right, once she started doing things she enjoyed, she would forget about her terrible night.

"Go on in," Vanora pressed.

"By myself?" Aerin asked, feeling panic well up within her. What if she couldn't find someplace to sit? What if no one wanted to talk to her?

The redhead rolled her eyes. "Of course by yourself! I've got to work here. Don't worry, though, if you go straight to the Round Table, I'm sure that they'll trip over themselves trying to find a seat for you. Just tell them that I said so."

Aerin did not object any further, not wanting to annoy the other woman. "All right." She made her way out of the kitchen, doing her best to avoid the stream of pretty serving girls who cursed loudly and adeptly whenever someone got in their way.

The roar grew louder as she stepped into the dining hall. People milled about, children ran screaming giddily in between the tables … Aerin had to tread delicately around them for fear of tripping. She looked about desperately for someone she knew, with little luck. There in one of the far corners were Hydref and her friends. Sitting with them was out of the question, of course; Aerin recalled what Vanora had told her and stepped towards the Round Table.

It was not full, by any means. In fact, neither the King nor any knights she recognized were seated there. For a few agonizing moments, she stood awkwardly to the side of the Table, unsure of how to act. Should she just take a seat and hope that no one noticed her? Or should she request a chair? The latter, though the more intimidating option, seemed the more proper. With steps made slow in trepidation, she approached an empty swath of the table and mustered up the most casual voice she could. "Would you mind if I took a seat here, Sirs?"

The nearest man to her, one of the younger knights, peered at her. "What did you say?"

Taken aback, she floundered for a response until she realized that he had not heard her. For a moment relief washed over her; she had thought he was ridiculing her. "I asked if you and your fellow knights would mind if I sat with you."

"Sorry, Lady, I can't hear a word. Why don't you come and sit down over here?"

Aerin suppressed an exasperated roll of her eyes and moved forward as the knight stood up and pulled back the chair next to his own. She sat down gratefully.

"Now that's better!" He announced. "What was it that you wanted?"

"Merely a seat, Sir," she answered. "Vanora told me -"

The five or so knights who were close enough to hear the exchange all began to chuckle. Looking slightly embarrassed, the first knight ducked his head. "O' course you're welcome here, if it's by Vanora's invitation."

"Thank you, sir," she said softly, not wanting him to feel as awkward as she did.

"I'm Sir Lionel, by the way, and this is Percival," he said, gesturing to the young man who sat on his other side. "You must be from the village that was attacked."

"I am – I'm called Aerin. 'Tis a pleasure to meet you." Percival gave her a shy smile and dropped his gaze, but Lionel grinned widely.

"No, the pleasure's mine." Apparently, this knight did not know silence, because he immediately began introducing her to the other seated men. "Those two over there are Sirs Torre and Lavaine, they're brothers from Wales. That, over there, is Sir Bedivere, and next to him are Sirs Kay, Melegeant, and Caradoc. Not everyone is here, though I'm sure you know that. I guess that yesterday you met Sir Bors … and Galahad and Gawain, too."

"I did," she said, unable to stop a smile. Lionel laughed, though it sounded more like a cough, and went on.

"Yes, well, there was lots of excitement yesterday. We're missing Sir Tristan – that's not uncommon, though, he's probably off scouting somewhere – and Sir Lancelot – that's not uncommon either, he's probably busy breaking some poor girl's heart about now. We've got a few others out on patrol, of course."

"I saw Galahad earlier in the stables," Percival began in a quiet voice. "He pointed out your mare. A very fine horse, he said."

"Will you show her to me after breakfast?" Lionel asked, not giving Aerin a chance to confirm whether or not the horse was hers.

"I suppose," she murmured. "If you wish."

"You know, Percival, Pelleas isn't here. That's odd; he's never late."

A diplomatic cough finally stilled Lionel's tongue. Aerin looked around to see Gawain as he took the seat on her other side. "Good morning, Lady Spitfire," he greeted. "I see you've met the irrepressible Lionel."

Aerin grinned; Gawain's assessment of the other knight was quite exact. "Morning. Yes, I have. He's been most … accommodating."

"What brings you down so early?" Lionel queried. "I thought you had a late night."

Gawain nodded. "I did. But the woman in Lancelot's chambers is bawling fit to wake an army of Woads. Sure he's bloody pleased with that." He snorted in obvious distaste, a sarcastic edge touching his voice as he spoke the last sentence.

Lionel shook his head in obvious annoyance. "Again?"

"The whole floor's empty by now. I think Galahad went down to the stables to sleep in the loft rather than put up with that racket – he wasn't in his room."

Lionel edged closer to Aerin. "Don't let him make you think that he's any different than Lancelot when it comes to women." He was still smiling, though to Aerin it seemed forced, and the look in his eyes was not friendly.

She frowned and leaned away, confused as Lionel continued. "Ask him about what happened 'twixt him and Pelleas, if you don't believe me."

The healer swung her head to look at Gawain, eyes wide. _What in heaven's name is he going on about? _The tawny-haired knight rolled his eyes and said in a veritable growl, "Lay off, will you?" He looked as if he wanted to attach some expletives to the end of his command, and Aerin was thankful that he did not. She searched for something to say that would ease the sudden tension, but was saved as Bors appeared, trailed by at least six children of varying ages. He shooed them away as he took a seat next to Gawain.

"Noise brought you down, too?" Bors asked by way of greeting, and Gawain nodded.

"Glad I couldn't hear them last night, at least."

Percival had been looking at the hall's main entrance. "Look, there's Lancelot now, with King Arthur and Guinevere."

Aerin swung her head immediately, trying to get a good look at the famed personages through the press of the crowd. She noticed that everyone was all of a sudden scrambling to find seats, and supposed it had something to do with the King's entrance.

For all the warnings she had received about his character, she could not help the gasp that caught in her throat when she saw Lancelot. He was a good head shorter than King Arthur, but had a certain charm about him – and was breathtakingly handsome in a dark sort of way, to top it all off. She suddenly realized why women apparently flocked to him.

Queen Guinevere was just as beautiful as she had imagined, and had a captivating smile. As she drew closer, Aerin heard her exchanging snide comments with the Sarmatian knight. They appeared to be arguing, though the King wore the same utterly calm expression he had the day before, and even looked happy.

Vanora sat in Bors's lap at just that moment, a smile on her face. "See, Aerin, I told you that you'd find a place to sit."

Aerin nodded meekly, choosing not to relate her pathetic attempts at requesting a seat. She felt a shadow slide over her as someone stepped up behind her and placed a hand on the back of her chair. "So, Gawain," a smooth voice asked. "Who's this?"

Aerin looked up to see Lancelot's eyes boring into her, as if appraising her worth. For a moment, she considered using her wit on him as reward for his arrogance, but she was aware that both the King and Queen were near, as well. Before Gawain could introduce her, she said, "My name is Aerin, Sir."

Lancelot looked surprised that she was answering for herself, but within a heartbeat the confident look was back, even as Gawain said, "She's from the village _we _fought at yesterday." For some reason, he looked gleeful, as if he had scored a point in a contest.

Lancelot recoiled, and grumbled something unintelligible. Once again, though, his surety returned swiftly. "Ah, are you, my lady? It _is _a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps you'll ask Gawain here to move his chair elsewhere, so that we can … talk."

Vanora, seeing Aerin's helpless state, leaned over and laid a slap to Lancelot's face. "Don't you even think about it, you greedy pig!"

Amid the uproarious laughter that followed, Gawain said to the healer, "Don't mind Lancelot. He's easily controllable, really."

The king's best friend had adopted an injured expression, ignoring the barbed jests of the knights around him. "Vanora, Vanora, please, consider things from my point of view. You've spurned me time and again; you can't expect me not to move on."

Everyone fell silent as the redhead slowly stood up, for it was plain that she was about to give a display of her renowned temper. "Why, you -"

It was Arthur that cut in, saving his knight from who knows what kind of torment. "Vanora, I apologize from the bottom of my heart for his behavior – he's been bored lately, with nothing to do."

Vanora rolled her eyes but managed, "Of course, Arthur," as she sank back into her seat, glaring daggers at the dark knight.

The King turned to Aerin. "Lady, if Lancelot was too forward, I take all responsibility for the offense."

The healer melted. "Oh, no, my lord, your knights are the model of courtesy. I would be wrong to find fault with them."

Guinevere spoke up, a mocking smile on her face. "Did you hear that, Lancelot? You're a 'model of courtesy. I never would have guessed."

The curly-haired knight gave an equally wry smile in return. "O Queen, you doubt my chivalry?"

"Here we go again," Gawain muttered, and it appeared that the rest of his comrades felt the same. Bors, for his part, looked hard-pressed to keep from leaning back and putting his feet on the table. Guinevere shot back a scathing reply, and then they were all rescued from having to listen to more when Arthur once again intervened.

"Come, you two, we can continue this discussion once we're settled." The king led them off to seats on the far side of the table, though he wore a beatific, peaceful look that Aerin could not fathom. For all the world, it seemed as if he enjoyed hearing his wife and his knight bicker like ten year old girls.

The healer shook her head slowly in amazement. "Are they – is Arthur – always like that?"

Bors, Gawain, Lionel and Vanora answered in unison. "Always."

"But why?"

Gawain shrugged. "Because we're at peace, for the moment, and everyone's getting along rather well." Aerin might have imagined it, but she thought she saw a warning flash through his eyes as his gaze caught Lionel's. She was still confused as to what had occurred before the arrival of the other knights had distracted them all, but she knew that it had certainly not been pleasant.

Arthur's strong voice broke through her thoughts as the king rose from his seat, holding up his goblet. Everyone in the hall followed his example, and one could have heard a pin drop. "Welcome, one and all. This morning we celebrate a victory against the Saxons who would take our land from us. They do not realize that it is our blood that has been spilled time and again in this land's defense, or that we will not hesitate to rise up against any who threaten us." The audience cheered wildly, but quieted down when Arthur resumed speaking. "Let us give thanks for those that made this moment possible – those who fought and died for our beloved land. Think on them as you enjoy this good meal eaten in the company of friends and countrymen."

"And country_women,_" Guinevere put in, above the applause, receiving a sheepish nod of agreement from her husband. "For Britain!"

Aerin found herself raising her own glass and joining the assembled people of Camelot as they shouted back, "For Britain!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story. **

**Maybe I went a bit too overboard with Lancelot in this chapter? He does take on the role of troublemaker, but don't worry, he'll be a bit more sensible in the rest of the story. Also, remember that he's bored. Really, really bored. **

**Oh, and also, at one point in the chapter, I refer to the Round Table as having "sides." Just to be clear, yes, I do know that circles do not have sides, but I couldn't find a better way to explain it. Please bear with me :) **

**This was a fast update, but I won't be around for a while so don't expect another for at least a week – sorry. **

**Thanks once again to my reviewers, homeric, vicklyd, lewilder, and Nikel's lover, and anyone who has favorited or subscribed – you can't imagine how excited I get when I get an alert in my inbox! **

Ever Homeward 

True to her word, Vanora took Aerin straight to the infirmary after they had finished their breakfast and bade the knights good day. It was in the west wing of the manor, and took up the whole third floor except for the library, which also served as Arthur's study because he was its prime visitor. Unlike the other areas of the manor, it was quiet in the infirmary, and only a few servants bustled about.

Compared to the dim of the staircases, the infirmary had plenty of large windows, with plain, cream-colored curtains that had been drawn back to let the strong summer sunlight in. One entire wall was covered almost completely with wooden cupboards and shelves, that Aerin guessed were stocked with medical supplies. Ten neat cots were lined up against another wall, with plenty of room for more if need be. To one side, there was a simple wooden table, and near to the large stone fireplace were a few worn chairs, upholstered in pale green fabric.

Vanora rapped loudly on the open door, calling, "Someone here to see you, Faustus."

An aging men stepped out from behind a curtain that separated the back of the infirmary from the front. He was hunched over, he had steaks of gray in his black hair, and his face was covered in wrinkles, but his dark eyes were alert and full of wisdom. "Good day, Vanora," he greeted. "And who might you be, lady?"

"I'm Aerin, sir, and I've been trained as a healer since I was a child. I – I was wondering if …" She was suddenly too embarrassed to even ask as all confidence in her abilities drained out of her. Vanora had said that he was a Roman surgeon, skilled in even the most complex of medicines. What want could he possibly have of her help?

"She wants to know if you have room for another," Vanora continued for her. Aerin shot her a grateful look.

Faustus smiled and clapped his hands with a vigor he should not have had at his age, nearly surprising Aerin out of her wits. "Of course I'll take you on, girl! We're always in need of healers."

"Thank you, sir!" Aerin exclaimed, grinning back at Faustus like a fool. _A position, he gave me a position. _

"Come, come, I'll show you about." He gestured for her to follow him, and Vanora waved goodbye.

"I suppose I'll leave you two to your trade," the redhead said warmly. "And Aerin, tonight you'll have a proper supper. I hear Arthur wants a feast."

As Vanora left, Faustus showed Aerin his supply of herbs and potions. She reeled, not only at the sheer amount of healing medicines but at the great disorder in which they were all thrown together. Everything was spotlessly clean, that was certain, but the supplies were all jumbled together haphazardly – a few jars of purifying alcohol in this cabinet, some clumps of lavender in that, separate from the sage and the bay even though all three were used to treat headaches, liquorice here and comfrey there, yarrow and coriander mixed together …

Faustus looked sheepish. "Organization is not one of my better traits, though I have asked God to strengthen me."

Aerin was tempted to say that she had never met a disorganized healer, but Faustus had just hired her so she bit her tongue and said instead, "Perhaps I might be able to help with that."

Faustus's smile returned. "Oh, praise heaven! Ah, look, Cigfa and Eurneid have arrived!"

Cigfa and Eurneid, Vanora had told Aerin, were two of the three "old crones" who worked under Faustus. Both of them were nearly as old as Faustus, perhaps in their mid-fifties. They were British women, and they nodded kindly as Faustus introduced Aerin.

"There's no one here today yet," the Roman said. "But mark my words, it'll get awfully busy by midday."

Cigfa agreed. "Yes, and Briant will be late today – she's assisting Old Peblig the farmer, he's got aching joints again."

Eurneid hoisted a woven basket she had been carrying up and laid it on the table. "Come and help, child," she said to Aerin. "These herbs need to be dried."

So Aerin passed a pleasant morning in the infirmary. She found that she liked Cigfa and Eurneid, and even found that she liked Faustus, despite the fact that he was a Roman. His accent was smooth and refined, like honey, and an unkind word never passed his lips. The other women questioned her, to assure themselves of her competence, as she had expected them to, but once they were satisfied they began gossiping, as women of their age are apt to do. By the time the morning had drawn to a close, Aerin felt that she had heard about every scandal that had occurred in Camelot for the past six months. She wasn't surprised to learn that many of the knights were at the center of at least half of those scandals.

"We don't get many young lasses who want to be healers anymore, as you can see." Cigfa confided as the day wore on. "They all want to be serving girls, to get close to the _nobility._" She snorted, as if the notion amused her.

At last, the door opened, admitting the first patient of the day. It was Lancelot, wearing armor, with his twin swords strapped to his back. Faustus had gone down to the servant's quarters to help a laundry maid who had apparently twisted her ankle, and Cigfa and Eurneid were treating themselves to a quick lunch as they rolled bandages.

"Ah, Sir Lancelot!" Eurneid greeted from her chair. "What brings you here today?"

He flashed his most ravishing smile. "The lady Aerin, of course," he announced, bowing with a flourish. Flustered and not knowing what else to do, she glared at him, but Cigfa gestured to her.

"See what's wrong with him, dear, while we finish our food."

Once again, Aerin couldn't help but think how handsome Lancelot was, though he was covered in sweat and sand. "I know what's wrong with him," she muttered. "He can have every woman he wants."

Cigfa and Eurneid began to chuckle, but Lancelot's grin only grew. "I nicked my hand in practice today, about fifteen minutes ago." He held out his right hand, which was smeared with dirt and blood. "Usually I wouldn't have come to a healer for something as small as this, but I heard that _you'd _be here."

Unimpressed, Aerin rolled her eyes and took his hand, frowning at the long gash across his palm. "It's awfully dirty. What happened, did you submerge it in mud?"

The Sarmatian adopted a wry expression. "Yes, while I was making clay castles and playing with a wooden sword."

"Sit down while I get some bandages," Aerin told him, and he complied. While she was drawing a pail of cool water from the infirmary washroom, she heard Cigfa and Eurneid teasing the knight.

"Who were you sparring with, to gain such a wound? Little Lucan?"

"With Bors. By the time we were finished, the big oaf and I were both on the ground."

"That explains the sand."

Aerin returned, and dipped a piece of clean cloth in the bucket of cool water, which she used to wipe the grime from Lancelot's injured hand.

"You know," he began, "I make it a point to become acquainted with all the women in this city." He would have said more, but Aerin cut him off.

"The others called you notorious," she told him, but her statement did not have the desired effect.

Instead, he flashed another dashing smile. "Well, I am _Lancelot,_" he mused. "There are simply no other words to describe the wondrous being I am."

"Vain, aren't you?" Aerin asked dryly as she finished cleaning the cut and began to bind it.

He looked offended. "Vain, me? Why, lady, you must be mistaken – I'm the humblest knight in Britain!" 

"I'm sure. This will scar, you know," she said. "It won't really be visible, but I'm sure you, in all your great _humility, _will notice." She tied the bandage in a tight knot. "There you are. Come back later to have the binding changed."

Lancelot scoffed skeptically. "For a cut this small?"

"Of course, you half-wit!" Eurneid interjected. "The risk of infection is still there, no matter how small. Bet you wouldn't like it much if we had to take off your whole hand."

"Whatever you say," Lancelot replied, standing up and directing the second half of his statement to Aerin. "But I'm sure you just can't wait to have me back."

As he left, Aerin cleaned up her supplies and picked up a broom. Though she was working, she felt light, and she suddenly realized why. She was free, free of her duties to her family and to Robert, her old master, free to do whatever she wished, and no one she had met so far had cared two whits about where she had come from. Somehow she had made friends instead of enemies, and gotten a job, the salary of which would more than pay for her stay in Camelot and leave her with money to take home. It was good, she decided, to be free.

…

Vanora had been right about the rumored feast. (Actually, Aerin was beginning to find that the fiery woman was always right about everything.) By the time evening fell, the kitchens were once again bustling, even more so than they had been that morning. It seemed that extra workers had been hired from the city, and they worked furiously. Aerin stayed well away, taking refuge in her chamber once Faustus dismissed her for the day.

The main hall was already over-crowded by the time she descended the stairs. The tables in the center of the hall had been pushed aside to clear a space where couples were already dancing as a few minstrels played harps. Aerin took a deep breath and began threading her way cautiously through the press, apologizing every time she stepped on someone's foot. A claustrophobic feeling began to assault her, but she continued, telling herself that if she could just get to the Table, she'd be fine.

Almost every knight had found his seat at the Round Table by the time she reached it. So had Arthur and Guinevere. She spotted an empty chair next to Galahad, and, feeling that luck was with her for giving her a seat next to someone she knew, sat down with a greeting and a smile.

"Hello, Galahad. How are your fingers feeling?"

He had come up to the infirmary earlier that day to have the splints changed, and now he drummed them on the table to show that they were better, wincing at the unexpected pain. "Good as new," he managed through his grimace.

A voice called her name curiously, and she heard the scraping of chair legs as one was dragged across the floor.

"Aerin?" It was more of a question than anything else.

The healer found herself staring at Gawain, who was holding his chair next to her. He looked unsure, confused, and this, in turn, confused Aerin, because in the short time she had known him he had never seemed anything but arrogantly confident.

"Aye?" She asked, equally hesitant, and she at last placed his expression. He looked as if he didn't recognize her.

He blinked, dispelling the muddled look. "Nothing. Mind if I sit here?"

"Of course not." Again, she was surprised. That morning, Gawain had told her himself that he cared little for court manners when she had made a sarcastic remark to the contrary. However, it was not long before he was back to his normal, joking self, and was making fun of Galahad for being impatient about the arrival of the food.

When the plentiful meal finally did arrive, Aerin expected all conversation to cease, as it had the night before, but it did not. Gambles, insults, and jests were traded by those on one side of the table to those on the other, and Arthur tried to make a speech, but was silenced when Lancelot, ever his companion, dragged him back into his seat and told him gleefully, "I daresay none of them quite care."

Bors and Vanora left the table after a while, disappearing up the stairs and presumably making their way to their chambers. However, the night was still quite young, as Galahad pointed out, so he and Gawain told more of their outrageous stories.

"So," Gawain asked. "How does a country bumpkin like you come across a velvet dress?"

Aerin blushed. She hadn't thought that men noticed clothing, and had furthermore agonized over whether she should wear this particular dress. Like Gawain had observed, it was of dark green velvet, and even had lace on the sleeves. "It's my feastday dress – the one I wear for Beltaine (1) and Samhain (2). And Christmas and Easter, I suppose. And this is a feast, after all." She did not rebuke him for claiming that she was a 'country bumpkin' because everything she had said and done had marked her as such, and she knew he didn't mean it nastily.

"You celebrate all of those?" Galahad asked, incredulous.

She nodded. "My father is a Christian, and my brother is too, I guess, so we always observe the Christian holy days." She leaned closer confidentially, and dropped her voice. "But I'm a Gael, remember? My mother wouldn't let my father baptize me."

Gawain raised an eyebrow, grinning at the mental image of a woman defying her Christian husband and actually succeeding. "I think I would have liked your mother."

Aerin smiled sadly, but in truth, her mind had wandered from the conversation and was focused instead on the other knights as they brought their women to the dance floor. She liked to dance, herself.

As if reading her mind, Gawain leaned over. "Would you like to dance, then, Lady Spitfire?"

He was mocking her, so she shook her head. "No, thanks, noble Sir Gawain. I think I'm going to bed, actually. I'm a bit tired."

"Are you sure?" Galahad burst out, and she nodded.

"Why would I not be?"

"Because it's still early – it's barely full night. You're not going off with anyone, are you?"

He looked so suspicious and yet so incredibly innocent that Aerin began to giggle, and shook her head again. "Of course not, you clay-brained, silly thing!"

Gawain looked at her. "You swear?"

She rolled her eyes, but managed to answer straight-faced and in a solemn voice, "I promise, on my oath! I've never heard a more ridiculous thing." _Why do they care so much, anyway? _She thought, and then reminded herself that that's what friends did. They cared.

…

Taverns had always been crowded places in Britain, even in the days when the prim, wine-loving Romans had ruled. The one called _Knife and Barrel Inn,_ in the city of Camelot, was no different. It was rowdy, loud, and filled with soldiers, merchants, shopkeepers, butchers, tax-collectors, beggars, and the like. It was there where the wealthy could be seen sharing drinks and throwing dice with the poor – where men could be men and were so truly equal. Gawain didn't know if Arthur would thoroughly approve of having his dignified logic being applied to unwholesome places such as this tavern, but Arthur wasn't around at the moment, and what he didn't know wouldn't give him cause for another of his idealistic lectures.

Not all the Round Table Knights were at the tavern that night, but enough were that they attracted a deal of attention before the onlookers got sufficiently bored and returned to their ale. Lancelot was there, as always, as were Bors and Tristan. Some of the 'recruits' had joined them as well, including the brothers Lavaine and Torre, and Kay and Dinadan. They were good company, and their laughs echoed all around them. Galahad was there, of course, though Gawain knew he was going to be the one dragging his favorite comrade back to the manor.

They occupied two tables in an empty back corner, winking at the serving girls and jesting among themselves. As per usual, Lancelot was insulting Gawain's ability to keep a woman pleased, and the younger knight found himself wishing that he had brought his battle-ax, just to shut his antagonist up for once. He was in the middle of contemplating how Lancelot would look with a broken nose, and smiling to himself, when Galahad elbowed him, ewer in hand.

"You know, he does have a point, Gawain," the slightly inebriated knight said, loudly enough for Lancelot to hear. "The spitfire lass didn't want to dance with you."

Gawain rolled his eyes, a more than slightly annoyed at the betrayal, but doing his best not to show it because Galahad was drunk and probably didn't mean it. He shrugged. "She didn't want to dance with anyone – she went to her room."

"With who?" Lancelot asked, a devious smirk on his face as Gawain took the bait.

"With no one, you misbegotten old -"

Gawain's cursing was drowned out as the older knight raised an eyebrow, all the while laughing to himself. "Now, now, now, Gawain, keep a civil tongue," he admonished mockingly. "I was sure she was with Pelleas …"

"You're lying," Gawain protested. "She promised that she – Hang on, she doesn't even know Pelleas!"

"And she's not 'that kind of girl', apparently," Galahad put in.

Lancelot's ever-shifting gaze and wicked grin should have been enough of a warning as to what he was up to. He had Gawain right where he wanted him now – insulted and itching to prove himself over the dark knight. "Well, Gawain, you should hurry up and win her over then. I'll give you three days."

"Three days?"

"Three days until she's my woman, of course. You shouldn't find that too hard, considering how talented you say you are among the ladies."

Bors had been listening, and now he interrupted. "Are you makin' a bet, Lancelot, or stakin' a claim?"

The dark knight's smirk grew wider. "Both. If Gawain fails to win the healer's affection in three days, then I'm free to have her to myself for as long as I please."

The matter had drawn the attention of the other knights. Seeing their stares and finding himself with little else to do, Gawain drew a knife from his belt and stuck it's point into the worn wood of the table. "Fine." Truth be told, he had never really minded a challenge. Despite the frequent battles and constant training, he, like Lancelot, was bored.

And Lancelot was bored – or had been. These newest country women would certainly provide him with the chance for a bit of fun, and he would take it. He had been delighted to discover that Gawain fancied the Gaelic lass, because if there was one thing he enjoyed almost as much as women, it was driving his fellow knight out of his mind. That would be sufficiently accomplished by making the scruffy-haired Sarmatian think that he wanted the girl for himself, and before the three days were up, chaos was sure to have been unleashed. This, he thought, was going to be interesting.

**Pronunciation/Translation:**

**Beltaine: Gaelic May-Day festival; celebrates the coming of spring**

**Pronounced _Bell – tane _(tane rhymes with rain)**

**Samhain: Celtic harvest festival **

**Pronounced_ Sawin_**

**So? What did you think? I'm dying to know! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story. **

**Incredibly long wait, I know, but fear not – I have returned to the land of fanfiction! **

**I got SIX reviews last chapter, from KimmyWSmith, brandibuckeye, Allliee, lewilder, UchihaAkia, and homeric! Thanks so so so much! I can't communicate with words how thrilled I am! Also thanks to anyone who favorited/subscribed, and anyone who has reviewed in the past. **

**I feel that Gawain's thoughts are kind of a mess in this chapter, but I think it's because of his scattered mental state. Maybe I'll fix them if I have the time. ( I wanted to post this ASAP.) **

**Fluff warning in effect until further notice. **

**Enjoy! **

Ever Homeward 

The market was as crowded as ever, with merchants shrieking for attention and waving their goods about, and beggars shuffling here and there. People of all status called greetings to Gawain and smiled at Aerin.

It was late afternoon on her third full day in Camelot, and Gawain was making good on a promise to take her around the city. She had asked Galahad to come along, but he had blushed and mumbled an excuse. That was all right with Aerin – she and Gawain got along just fine on their own. She tightened her grip on the Sarmatian's hand and pulled him through the throng towards a craftsman's stand.

Aerin couldn't even find the time to care that she was revealing herself to be less and less sophisticated by the moment. Gawain teased her relentlessly as she learned the names of the exotic fruits from the southern countries, and examined the multicolored – and ridiculously expensive – silks from even more isolated lands. They passed a baker's stand and purchased two rolls of warm white bread with a single copper coin. Aerin relished hers; she didn't mention that white bread was only supposed to be for feast days.

It was then that a certain peddler's cart caught her eye, situated in one of the less crowded side alleys. The peddler's head hung and his shoulders slumped as he turned back to his cart, unable to attract any potential buyers. In his hand he held a leather-bound text. Aerin's heart jumped within her and she again tugged on the knight's hand.

"Look, Gawain, over there! That peddler is selling books!"

His reaction was not what she had anticipated. "So?"

"So we have to go and see! Goodness, you'd think he's selling old fish for all the excitement you're showing."

"As far as I'm concerned, spitfire, they both amount to the same thing."

Aerin frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Neither of them can be eaten." His voice was emotionless, but when she met his gaze icily to reprimand him, he burst out laughing, right there on the street. Aerin found that she couldn't stifle her own giggles. They clutched each other for support as they crossed to the alleyway, still howling with mirth. The middle-aged peddler regarded them just a bit oddly, but Aerin managed to get a hold of herself and inquired quite solemnly about the stock of books.

He put on a bright smile, and when he spoke, Aerin could hear a strange accent in his voice. "I've got only the best in the world, my lady. I've traveled past Rome to the wild provinces in search of them."

"Of course," Aerin returned, tapping her foot impatiently beneath her homespun dress. Gawain was silent beside her. After what seemed like forever, the peddler brought out his wares. They were disappointing, to say the least: three richly illustrated copies of the Holy Bible, a fragment of a Greek play entitled _Dyskolos _(1), and a _Life of Saint Peter _(printed as _Vita Sancti Petri_). Aerin had been expecting something a bit more interesting than the Christian works. The peddler turned away to rummage through other items.

"I would buy the play, but I can't read Greek," Aerin told Gawain dejectedly.

His eyes widened. "You can read?"

"Latin, Welsh, Gaelic," she confirmed. "But the priest who taught me Latin didn't know Greek. Oh, I wish he had."

"You'll have to tell Arthur – then the two of you can have long, pointless conversations about whatever it is that educated people talk about."

"You can't read?" It was Aerin's turn to be confused. King Arthur, the great, the benign, the mighty, would allow his most trusted companions to live their lives in ignorance? To her, that did not seem like the proper way to run a court. But then again, governing wasn't exactly her area of expertise.

The knight scoffed, and for some reason he seemed almost smug. "Not a word."

"Not even in Sarmatian?"

He shrugged. "There aren't any written words in Sarmatian."

"But – but how do you keep records?" she pressed.

"Look, Aerin, anything that isn't important enough to stay in your memory just isn't important."

Her statement of protest was cut short as the peddler turned back to them and sighed. "You're not going to buy anything, are you?"

"Sorry, no," the healer answered with a shake of her head. "Unless you have something else?"

"Well," he said, "I have one more manuscript, but I doubt that – er, dignified people such as yourself would want to see it. It's not from Rome; I got it a few years back from a widow in Deva who said her son had recovered it in a raid against the Woads." Despite his words, he handed the cloth-wrapped volume to Aerin.

She could not help the glee that filled her when she read the cover, or the grin that spread across her face.

A bemused Gawain asked, "What does it say?"

"_Gweledigaeth Myrddin_," she read. "Visions of Merlin."

…

"Are you sure about this? I can still make him give your money back."

Aerin shook her head. Upon seeing her interest in the little Pictish volume, the peddler had set it at a price about three times its worth. Gawain had advised her not to waste her money, but she insisted, and put her country-honed haggling skills to good use. She had walked away with the book firmly clutched in her hands, leaving a flabbergasted(2) Gawain staring at her. She couldn't help but feel a little guilty for already spending her as-yet-unearned salary.

"It's all right, Gawain. Books are expensive." This statement was as much for her own benefit as it was for the knight's. "I can't wait to look it over."

Darkness was gathering as they climbed the manor hill, and she was eager to start reading the book, but Aerin had one last thing to do. "I'm just going to to stop in the stables to see Síoda – I'm told a couple of the stable boys have been assigned to care for her, but I want to be with her myself."

"Oh. I'll come. To … um, check on my charger."

Aerin smiled; suddenly he seemed so unsure of himself. He had been acting different – rather out of sorts – since the previous morning. His jokes had abruptly gotten cleaner and he hadn't sarcastically insulted her once. Perhaps he was always like this, and he'd been different that first day? No, that couldn't be it; she'd heard some of the other knights mocking him about the change, as well. She hoped that he'd tell her what was going on in his mind, as much for her benefit as well as his. Somehow, it wasn't right to not know.

The stables were quiet apart from the occasional nicker. Aerin patted a few of the village ponies she recognized as she made her way towards Síoda's stall, calling them each by name. She dug in her apron pocket and offered a small horse-bread (3) cake, sized to be a treat and not a meal.

"Don't you have something special for your stallion?"

Gawain shook his head. "I had an apple, but Galahad needed it to settle an argument with Tristan."

The healer decided that it was best not to ask. "Here, I have another tidbit of horse-bread." She stepped over to her friend's dapple grey, holding out the morsel.

"Wait, don't -" Gawain warned as his charger snapped at Aerin's hand without warning. She pulled away, the treat still in her palm. "He's rather aggressive – he's not gelded. Makes him nastier to enemy horses in battle," the knight explained, once he had assured himself that she was not hurt.

She nodded. "I see." Before Gawain could stop her, she held out her palm once again, meeting the stallion's eyes calmly. To the knight's surprise, her hand was not ripped off. Instead, the charger dropped his head and meekly accepted the treat. Aerin turned around. "I think I'm going to like this horse."

After a few more minutes, Aerin took a deep breath and headed for the door. "It's getting late, Gawain."

"And?"

"And you told me yourself that you have a patrol first thing tomorrow morning."

He gave her his best grin. "I think we can stay awake for a quick walk in the gardens, don't you?" At her disapproving frown, he went on. "It's not like it's a long patrol – it'll take a few hours at most. I won't collapse from lack of sleep."

"Fine." Was it just her, or did he seem to be able to convince her into anything? He was just so enthusiastic about everything. And kind. Not to mention funny …

Outside, the sky was black as pitch and sparkling with a million stars. Aerin breathed in the sweet scent of jasmine, lily and orchid, and felt Gawain's hand close on hers.

"What do you think?"

She blinked. "Of what?"

With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture. "Of the garden, of course. It's a little too perfect for my taste."

Looking around, Aerin could see what he meant. Each type of plant had its own bed, and every leaf, every petal, looked as if it was in its proper place. Most of the flowers were pale-colored, producing an almost ethereal feel, and it seemed as if nothing would ever be disturbed. "Well, it's beautiful. But you're right."

"It's Arthur's favorite place, apart from his study. But personally, I wouldn't mind a little disorder."

"You know, I wouldn't either, Gawain. I wouldn't either."

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but peace. And then the knight looked up. "How about a lot of disorder?" he asked. "Because it's about to storm!"

True enough, clouds had rolled in, as they always managed to do in Britain. Without any further warning, lightning flashed and the sky opened up. Aerin shrieked, and they ran for the manor, but both were soaked by the time they burst through the doors.

A passing maid saw them and cursed, fixing them with a death glare. "Now I have to clean up that mess!"

Aerin stammered an apology, but Gawain rolled his eyes and pulled her across the hall towards the great hearth, leaving a trail of mud. Once their clothes had stopped dripping, they made their way to the dormitory floor, the knight declaring that it was his duty to walk Aerin to her chamber. (She wouldn't be able to find it on her own, he said.)

They reached the end of the hallway, and Aerin's room. Gawain smirked when he laid eyes on it. "In the original plans for the manor, this was a supply closet for the servants."

"Oh, you're hysterical, Sir Gawain. Perhaps in the original plans, you were Arthur's jester." She pushed the door open, expecting an equally acidic reply. "Good night."

He raised her hand to his lips. "'Night, Lady Spitfire." He was gone in a moment, leaving Aerin thunderstruck. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Gradually, the stunned expression on her face gave way to a soft smile, and she felt her heart shimmer. Had he been joking? Was she imagining it all? What in Ffraid's name was going on?

…

Gawain strode through the passageway towards his own chamber, making a mental string of curses that grew longer and more vehement with the moment. He'd had her, completely had her, and then – nothing. If he'd just kissed her, or favored her with his renowned flattery, he would have had her and won the bet, and probably ruined Lancelot's insufferable arrogance for a while. But no.

He knew women, almost as well as (he said better than) Lancelot. And he knew that if he had made a move tonight, their relationship would have lasted for two days more, at best. Galahad was right: Aerin just wasn't that kind of girl, and she would have ended up hurt.

She had started out as an amusement, a pretty trinket with which to pass a night or two. Now, though … All of a sudden, he didn't care two coppers about the bet, or Lancelot, or anyone else. He wanted to be with Aerin.

He still had his pride, though, and he'd given his word to Lancelot. If he lost the bet, Aerin would be endlessly pursued by the other knight, and he himself would have lost his pride. That was something he could not, would not, stand for.

**Footnotes: **

**_Dyskolos_: (translates as _Old Curmudgeon_)comedy written by the Greek playwright Menander around the year 317 B.C.**

**Flabbergasted: Don't you just love this word? Come on, say it: flabbergasted! It's just so much _fun _to say! Flabb – er – gast – ed. **

**Horse-bread: (; no, it's not made of horses ;)(Sorry, that was really bad.) Baked mixture of beans and peas, and other grains, used for feeding horses in the early Middle Ages. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or his knights, the legends or the movie(s) they are portrayed in, and am not making any profit whatsoever from posting this story.**

**I'm so, so sorry about the wait. Real life hit and I had to take a break from writing, and on top of that, my computer crashed and I lost the King Arthur files. However, I'm back now (hopefully).**

**I'd also like to say how grateful I am for all the encouraging reviews this story received. They made me want to continue writing all the more.**

**Without further ado, here is the next chapter. **

Chapter 9

The infirmary stock was even more of a mess than she'd thought. Faustus' three helpers had laughed when they realized she actually meant to bring about order to the neglected shelves, while Faustus himself had clapped his hands and smiled at her benevolently. They had left the infirmary to her for a few hours as none of them wanted to be around her while she set herself up for failure. A couple of patients had wandered in, but, as with the past few days, none had any serious ailments.

Aerin huffed to herself. She hadn't really expected anyone to offer to help, but it would have been a welcome gesture. She took a step back and surveyed her progress. Nothing spectacular had been accomplished. The third shelf from the ground - the most accessible one - showed the most progress. All the substances used for treating and cleansing wounds had been grouped on one side: yarrow, mint, vinegar, and even the lone jar of myrrh paste. The other side was reserved for needles, sinew thread, and of course, rolls upon rolls of clean bandages. There hadn't been a full-scale battle yet, but Aerin knew that there probably would be plenty in the near future, and organized supplies would make everyone's lives a bit easier.

She began to hum a spirited country tune, pleased with her efforts even though she knew she had barely scratched the surface of everything that needed to be done. She stopped humming mid-note and turned as the infirmary door creaked open.

"Miss?"

Three young children stood in the doorway. By their faces, Aerin knew two of them to be of Vanora and Bors's brood - the third, a boy, hung back so that she could not see his face. The other boy, Gilly, supported his sister as they stood; her knees were badly scraped and dripping with blood, and her face was red and blotchy with tears.

Aerin turned back to the shelves, reaching for the things she would need. "Come in, sit on that cot over there, please. There's a pail of fresh water on the table, would one of you boys go and get it?" The girl limped across the floor as Gilly hurried towards the water bucket.

As Aerin cleaned the cuts on the girls knees, she found out what had happened.

"Gilly pushed me," the girl said, wincing.

Her brother frowned. "Did not! You tripped when you tried to push me!"

"Liar!"

"Oh, Miss Aerin, you have to believe me - it was Five's fault, not mine."

The healer didn't know how she should handle the bickering children. She thought for a moment, and finally took a breath. "Neither of you should be pushing the other. Do you promise not to do so again?"

Both studied the floor guiltily. "Yes'm," they said in unison.

" I can't be sure of what happened, so I won't blame either of you. But if I find out that you fight again, I'll make sure your mother hears about it."

Their eyes widened as they imagined the punishment Vanora would dish out. Aerin felt a twinge of sympathy and decided that they were sufficiently cowed. Had she been too harsh on them? They were only children, after all. She finished tying the wrappings around the scrapes and straightened up to replace the supplies.

"Look," Gilly said. "You've got war wounds, just like Da!"

Five lifted her head and wiped away a few tears. "Will they scar?"

Aerin shifted uncertainly, not wanting to hurt the girl's feelings. "I . . . I suppose so, but only a little bit. You needn't worry -"

Five grinned and poked her brother. "Da will be so proud of me! I've got battle scars before you!"

Gilly returned the smile, and Aerin guessed that he would let his sister's comment pass unchallenged, if only for today. She took a jar filled with ripe plums down from its high shelf and held it out to them. "Here, dears, you can all have one."

The siblings rushed over, Five having forgotten completely about her injuries, and each grabbed one of the sweet fruits.

"Thanks, Miss!"

"Oh, think nothing of it," Aerin said as she peered at the third boy, who remained standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.

"You, too, lad, come in and get one. Don't you like plums?"

He remained stoic. Aerin felt a tug on her apron and looked down at Five. "Oh, Miss Aerin, he doesn't like to come in here. I'll bring a plum out for him - I promise I'll give it to him."

"All right, here you go. Now run along, it's a lovely day outside." She walked them to the door, where she got a good look at the strange boy. He held her gaze, clearly aware of her scrutiny. She forced a smile. "I'm Aerin; I'm a new healer here. What's your name?"

"Lucan."

"Well, Lucan, there's no reason to be scared of the infirmary. People's lives are saved -"

"I'm not scared of anything!" the boy burst out. "I just hate to see anyone else in his position."

Aerin leaned back, startled by the force with which he had spoken. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Gilly and Five were at the staircase, well back from their companion. "Oh, Lucan, come on, and don't start trouble," one called.

The boy slowly turned away, and all three ran down the stairs, leaving the healer staring after them wide-eyed.

. . .

Faustus and Briant were the first to return, worn out from a day spent in the outskirt farms. They appraised the work Aerin had done on the shelves, Briant muttering under her breath about what a mess they were.

Faustus pursed his lips but ignored her. "Well, it seems you've made lovely progress . . . On this shelf, at least. Everything grouped together, how nice!" He handed his medical pouch to Aerin and sat down. "Humph, my old joints are creaking."

"Thank you, sir." Aerin grinned wryly as Briant patted her on the shoulder.

"More than I thought you'd get done, at least."

A knock sounded on the door, and all three perked up, Faustus rapidly brushing the dust of the country road off his clothing. "Come in!" he called. "Oh, Vanora, how are you this fine day?"

She carried a tray on which stood a ewer and several wooden tankards. "Good afternoon, Faustus. I just came up to see if you could spare Aerin for a moment to bring water out to the knights - they've been training since midday and it's awfully warm."

The surgeon raised an eyebrow. "She's got work to do, you know. Why don't you ask one of your serving girls?"

Vanora rolled her eyes. "They've all gone home until suppertime, because it's so nice out and all. "

Faustus still looked incredulous. "It's nearly four o'clock; your girls should be returning soon."

"Oh, but they're such a flighty lot that I can barely trust them."

Faustus finally nodded. "Ah, I see. Yes, Aerin, do go and help, but mind you're back shortly."

"Of course, sir, I'll be back as soon as -"

Briant cut her off. "Aw, Faustus, let her go and enjoy what's left of the day. You're only young once, you know."

He shrugged, but then brightened. "Why, you're absolutely right, you know. I remember in the days of my youth when - oh, I suppose none of you want to hear that story just now. Go on, and have fun."

Aerin smiled. "Thank you so much, sir. You're ever so kind."

"Yes, thanks, you're such a help," Vanora added. She proceeded to hustle Aerin out of the infirmary. The two women didn't speak until they were down the first staircase.

"What was that all about?" Aerin asked, frowning.

Vanora glanced at her. "Oh, nothing for you to worry over. Why?"

"It just seemed like you were rather anxious to have me come along."

"Yes, what of it? Can't I feel like spending time with a friend?"

Was that all this was? _Is this how friends really act? That was quite strange. _But if Vanora really did consider her a friend, then that was splendid, no matter how she acted. Wasn't it? "I . . . suppose so."

"We'll just go and pick up the other tray in the kitchen, all right?"

"All right," Aerin echoed as she followed the other woman.

"Something on your mind?"

"Actually, yes. Earlier a couple of your children came in to see me - they needed to be patched up a bit. They really are sweet little things. But they had a companion with them that didn't look like one of yours, and I haven't seen him around at all. He . . . He seemed a bit disturbed with the infirmary, and got quite upset when I suggested that he was afraid of it."

Vanora sighed, her demeanor immediately changed. "That would be Lucan. And actually, he is mine, in a manner of speaking."

"Oh! I'm sorry, I –" Aerin said, embarrassed, but Vanora cut her off.

"Don't worry about it. Anyway, Bors and I adopted him after the Battle of Badon Hill. The reason he seemed so uneasy was that the infirmary reminds him of another knight, Dagonet, who cared for him and saved his life."

"And this Dagonet died in an infirmary?"

It seemed as if a shadow passed over Vanora's face. "No, he was a medic, like you. Lucan just doesn't want anyone to take his place. I suppose I'd better have a talk with him about that."

"I see," Aerin said, filing away the new information in case she ever needed it. The two proceeded to take another tray of a full ewer and tankards when they passed through the kitchen, and then stepped out into the bright courtyard. The air was scorching; the sun had done its work well. Aerin took a few moments to look around at the courtyard, as she hadn't had a chance to see it from anywhere but through the infirmary windows. It was paved with slabs of smooth grey stone, and had some pleasant ornamental plants, but the main feature was the fountain in the center, depicting a likeness of the king on a horse. A path led away to the side of the manor, where the stables were, and another led to the bottom of the hill on which the manor was built, to an orchard. They took that one, and once they had reached the cool shade of the stately old trees, Aerin began to hear shouts and the clanging of weaponry. On the other side of the orchard was the training ground, a flat, sandy area surrounded by a fence.

_It looks like a corral for livestock, not a place for training soldiers, _Aerin thought, though she said nothing. Most of the knights were apparently not practicing, instead taking shelter from the sun under the trees and watching the single remaining match between Galahad and Tristan. Aerin had never seen the latter knight before, as he'd been on patrol ever since she arrived, but one look told her it was the famed scout. Who else had a curved blade, or moved with such natural grace? Her feelings were confirmed once she got closer and noted the tattoos on the man's face.

Bors was the first to notice the two women, calling out, "Ah, my flower's come with drinks!" The attention of the other knights rapidly switched from the sparring match to the women, or more specifically, the trays on which the refreshing drinks rested.

They were greeted with thanks, and then relative quiet fell as each knight present grabbed a tankard. Aerin listened to Bors tell Vanora how surprised he was that Galahad hadn't yet been skewered when the young knight lost his footing, fell, and found Tristan's blade at his chest. He frowned, but accepted the scout's offered hand. As the knights exited the training pen, they were met with congratulations, or at least Galahad was. Tristan's performance had been nothing unexpected.

Galahad walked towards Aerin and helped himself to a tankard. "Well, how was I?"

She gave him a smile. "You fight very well. Your fellow knights were impressed."

He straightened up and puffed out his chest slightly, breathing hard as he was. "S'pose I do," he said.

At that moment, Gawain appeared at Aerin's side. "Haven't I already told you not to praise him so much? It makes him even more insufferable."

Aerin giggled, and Galahad rolled his eyes, though the half-smile that crossed his face suggested that there was some truth behind Gawain's words. "I'll go find some company that _appreciates _my many talents." He walked off, joining Lancelot and Torre as they made their way back to the manor, head held outrageously high.

Aerin looked after him. "He's not angry, is he?"

"Oh, no, he's joking. Normally he wouldn't, but summer puts everyone in a good mood," Gawain said. Aerin heard him take a deep breath before he went on. "Want to walk with me? We've got time before supper."

"Sure." She set her now-empty tray on a stump, willing herself to remember to bring it back later. As she and Gawain set off, hand in hand, some of the knights laughed aloud or made mildly suggestive comments, all of which Aerin chose to ignore.

The two walked around the storage shed, Gawain pointing out the extra armor and weaponry, which wasn't terribly interesting, but she kept a smile. Once he'd finished explaining the difference between rounded and square shields, they turned towards the gurgling brook a few paces away, where they removed their shoes and dangled their feet in the cool water. Aerin wouldn't have felt comfortable doing so in any other company, but she knew Gawain wouldn't mind or say anything to anyone else.

The late afternoon sun had dyed everything a warm gold, and birds were trilling somewhere close by. It felt almost magical. She turned to Gawain to tell him so, and only then realized that his simple cambric shirt had a v-shaped neckline which provided a pleasant glimpse of the muscles on his chest.

"I didn't realize you were so strong," she murmured, removing her hand from under his and softly running her fingers over his arm.

He grinned. "I'm glad that my appearance pleases you, O Lady Spitfire."

"Who said it pleased me?" She smiled as she met his eyes. Before she knew it, he'd leaned closer and brushed his lips against hers for the span of a heartbeat.

_I must be dreaming_. The thought floated through her mind, but she didn't take any time to contemplate it, as she had other things on her mind. Had that really been a kiss? He'd kissed _her_? She was sinking into the blue of his eyes, and she was happy to do so.

"Aerin? Aerin, stop!"

That hadn't come from Gawain. The two spun around to see Lionel rushing towards them, a scowl on his face.

Gawain spoke before she did. "Come on, Lionel, would you lay off? We were in the middle of something."

The other knight ignored him completely, and looked directly at Aerin. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner; I was on patrol –"

"Lionel, what are you talking about?" she asked, frowning.

He continued, not seeming to register her words. "Really, I'm sorry to have to break it to you like this, but I just found out that you were here . . ."

"What?" she repeated, raising her voice.

"This is all fake. The others were talking about how _he_," he said, jerking his head towards Gawain, "and Lancelot made a bet on who would bed you first."

Aerin felt her eyes widen and she looked at Gawain disbelievingly. "What is he talking about?" She was ashamed to hear her voice tremble.

Her heart sank as she saw a flash of guilt spread across his face. "It's not like he makes it seem."

Lionel shook his head, his scowl deepening. "Don't listen to him. He thinks you're a prize."

She stood up rapidly, grabbing her shoes. She felt betrayed and embarrassed. How could she have been so stupid, so gullible?

Gawain rose, as well, now wearing a pleading look. "Wait, Aerin, just listen."

She looked at him, then at Lionel, and then back at him. "No."

Lionel walked her back to the manor, relating every detail of how he'd learned of the scheme, who had said what, how eager he'd been to get back from patrol so he could protect her, and so on. She was only half-listening, her mind running through ever interaction she'd had with Gawain. She supposed Galahad was guilty also, he must have known and kept it from her.

Though Lionel begged her to attend supper, she went straight to her room after thanking him. Once there, she packed her bag, vowing that she'd take Síoda first thing in the morning and go home. After a few moments, however, a icy feeling built within her. She wouldn't let someone who now mattered so little to her drive her from this place; that would be cowardly. No, she'd stay, and work as hard as she could, and be successful without anyone's help, especially his.

**Comments and criticism are welcome as always!**


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